for illustrating, and small as is the book, a copy of the original
1839 edition sold for £5 15s. at Sotherby’s last year. Of course
Cruikshank’s version is comic, and the history of it is that he sang
the ballad at a dinner of the Antiquarian society, to the air, and
with the cockney pronunciation he had heard given to it by a street
ballad singer. Dickens was present at the dinner, and offered to
supply the illustrative notes (which are exceedingly humorous),
Cruikshank etched the plates, and almost innumerable editions of the
little book have been published; the most recent having been issued a
few years since by Messrs. Bell and Daldy, London.
THE NEW BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN.
Lord Bateman wos a noble Lord,
Wot held Free Trade pure fiddlededee;
So he up and he moved in the House of Peers,
In favour of Sweet Reciprocitee!
He maundered here, he meandered there,
For a good two hours, or, some say, three,
In the style of oration called roundaboutation,
Until his hearers they wos wearee.
For forty long years he had held the opinion,
And still his belief in that same wos strong,
That the jade Free Trade, deemed so fair and lovely,
Wos a vain deloosion wich led men wrong.
We’d abandon’d our old lady-love, Protection,
In favour of a minx wot wos far _too_ free:
We had boasted of her beauties unto foreign countries,
Wich those foreign countries had failed to see.
He would not go back to the old love wholly,
He wosn’t quite a Dodo, he wosn’t――not he.
The name of Protection he would rayther not mention,
But he warmly recommended Reciprocitee.
Wot wos right in love must be right in Commerce.
Wot man would marry an unloving bride?
He failed to see wy it wos only in trading
Reciprocity ought to be all o’ won side.
Then up and answered another noble Lord,――
Wich his name likeways it began vith a B,――
And he “sat on” poor Lord Bateman in a scientific manner,
Wich filled the beholders with mirth and glee.
Says he,――“Reciprocity’s a hollow phantom,
Though I swore ’twos a substance wonce, I know;
But you won’t raise the dead with a dusty recital
Of _my_ musty phrases of forty years ago.”
Then Free-Trade’s old lovyers they cheered and chuckled,
And the gallant Granville he smiled for to see
The Bogey young Dizzy so cleverly vamped up,
So coolly torn to pieces by the old Lord B.
But the crusted Lord Bateman, his sad face veiling
From his country’s sorrows and his party’s crimes,
Went homeward, and endeavoured to solace his sorrow,
By buying a stuffed Dodo, and burning of the _Times_.
_Punch._ May 10, 1879.
Lord Bateman’s motion in favour of Reciprocity met with little
encouragement in the House of Lords, and Lord Beaconsfield spoke
strongly against it.
――――:o:――――
LILLI BURLERO.
This song, now all but forgotten, deserves to be recorded, for it
contributed not a little to the Revolution of 1688. A contemporary
writer said of it, “A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating
the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which
had a burden, said to be Irish words, “Lero, lero, liliburlero,” that
made an impression on the King’s army that cannot be imagined by those
that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, were singing
it perpetually, and perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an
effect.”
One of the principal tools of James II. was General Richard Talbot,
who was nominated to the Lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, in this
position his arbitrary and cruel treatment of the Protestants
recommended him to the favour of his bigoted master, who rewarded him
by creating him Earl of Tyrconnel, and sending him a second time, and
on this occasion as Viceroy, to Ireland. It was at this time that
_Lilliburlero_ was written; _Lilliburlero_ and _Bullen-a-lah_ are said
to have been the sign and countersign used among the Irish papists
during their warfare with the protestants.
The song has been ascribed to Lord Dorset, but also, and with more
probability, to Lord Wharton, who openly boasted that he had sung King
James out of three kingdoms.
Ho! Broder Teague, dost hear de decree
Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah.
Dat we shall have a new deputie,
Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.
(_This refrain is to be repeated after each two lines._)
Ho! by St. Tyburn, it is de Talbote:
And he will cut de Englishmen’s troate.
Lilli, &c.
Dough by my shoul de English do praat,
De law’s on dare side, and Chrish knows what,
Lilli, &c.
But if dispence do come from de Pope,
We’ll hang Magna Charta and dem in a rope.
For de good Talbote is made a lord,
And with brave lads is coming aboard.
Who all in France have taken a sware,
Dat dey will have no Protestant heir.
Arrah! but why does he stay behind?
Ho! by my shoul ’tis a Protestant wind.]
But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore,
And we shall have commissions gallore.
And he dat will not go to de mass,
Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.
Now, now de hereticks all go down,
By Crish and Saint Patrick, de nation’s our own.
Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,
Ireland shall be ruled by an ass, and a dog.
And now dis prophesy is come to pass,
For Talbot’s de dog, and James is de ass.
Lilli burlero, bullen-a-lah.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.
The melody was said to be the same as that which accompanies the
convivial chant:――
“Very good song, very well sung,
Jolly companions, every one.”
And Lord Macaulay wrote of _Lilliburlero_:――“The verses and the tune
caught the fancy of the nation. It was especially the delight of the
English army.” Whilst Sterne also mentions it in “Tristram Shandy,” as
the favourite air of Uncle Toby, who had been a soldier in the army of
William III.
The following imitation alludes to the attempts being made in 1798 to
bring about the legislative union of England and Ireland, but which
did not actually take place until 1801. At that date the Irish
Parliament was induced, by bribery and fraud to consent to its
incorporation with that of Great Britain. The parody is a somewhat
remarkable prophecy of what has actually occurred.
THE NEW LILLA BULERO.
Ho, broder Teague, dost hear de decree?
Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha,
United men we shall all of us be,
Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha.
Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha,
Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha.
Says England, since Union’s de ting dat you want,
By Jasus I’ll give you a belly full on’t
And if green is de colour you like, by de mass,
You’ll be plas’d when all Dublin is cover’d wid grass.
But, says Teague, now, by Union, what is it dey mane?
Sure ’tis binding three nations all fast in one chain.
’Tis a shame which quite bodder’s one’s brain faith and troth,
For ’tis worse for de one yet it’s better for both.
Is not Johnny Fitzgibbon gone straight to de King?
Oh! between ’em how nately dey’ll settle de ting!
He’ll drive a rare job for us all, you may swear,
And anoder as good for Lord Chancellor Clare.
And since we’ve a parliament not to our mind,
Sure to take it away now, is wonderful kind.
Would a minister wish for his jobs better tools
Dan a cargo of knaves, when exported by fools?
And, by Christ, we’ll not send him such blundering elves,
Who will tink of deir country and not of demselves.
Oh! when Paddy in Westminster takes his own sate,
By my shoul he’ll enliven de British debate.
Should de Spaker call order, he’ll huff and look big,
Till he makes ev’ry hair stand on an end on his wig.
Should a member prasume on his spache to remark
Sure he’ll beg just to mate him next day in de Park.
For a park like our Phanix in London dey’ve got,
By jontlemen us’d for exchanging a shot.
Won’t it be a vast benefit now to our trade,
When all laws to promote it in England are made?
You have seen, Teague, a cur, to whose draggled backside,
Butcher boys have a broken old canister tied.
Now, if England’s de dog whom French butchers assail,
Will not we be de canister tied to her tail?
Not a great while ago, sure, we heard a vast dale
About renunciation and simple repale:
But this schame now will strike ev’ry orator mute,
And de Union will settle de simple dispute;
And ’twill den to our fearce Orange yeomen be known,
Dat in cutting our troats dey’ve been cutting deir own.
_Lilla Lero, &c._
_The Morning Chronicle._ 1798.
――――
THE NEW “LILLI BURLERO.”
(_To be sung by Nationalists to the old air._)
Ho! Broder League, dost hear the decree?
Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la,
“SAUNDERSON ought to be sub-Secretree.”
Bully Bull_er_o, Buller a-la.[51]
Lero, Lero, REDVERS BULLERO,
Lero, Lero, Buller o-la.
Oranges come to us from foreign climes,
Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la,
Is the blood-orange a sign of the Times?
Lilli Bull_er_o Buller a-la.
Lero, &c.
Down with Moon-lighters and up with the Laws!
Lillo Bull_er_o, Buller a-la,
And save us from Fire-and-Sworderson’s claws!
Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la!
Lero, &c.
_Punch._ March 19, 1887.
――――:o:――――
The style of the old ballad has been often so successfully imitated as
to deceive even the most accomplished literary critics. Amongst these
may be noted the “New-Old Ballads,” written by Peter Pindar (Dr.
Wolcot) which were republished by that clever but unscrupulous
satirist in a collection, entitled _Tears and Smiles_, published in
1801, with the following “Advertisement to the Reader. These ballads
were composed several years ago, in imitation of authors of the reigns
of Harry the Eighth, Elizabeth, and James, and sent to some of my
literary friends as innocent deceptions.――P. P.”
There were also “The Cornish Ballads,” written by Mrs. Gervis, and
“The Bristow Tragedy, or Death of Sir Charles Bawdin,” by Thomas
Chatterton, and others too numerous to mention, especially as they
cannot exactly be styled _Parodies_ in the strict sense of the term.
The finest burlesque ballad in the language is undoubtedly that
entitled “The Queen in France,” contained in _The Book of Ballads_
edited by Bon Gaultier, and published by W. Blackwood and Sons. This
clever book of parodies and burlesques was the joint production of Sir
Theodore Martin, and the late Professor W. E. Aytoun. The burlesque
ballad in question was probably composed by Aytoun, it describes the
Queen’s visit to Louis Phillippe in France in 1843, and closely
imitates the metre and diction of “Sir Patrick Spens” an old Scotch
ballad. The old ballad may be found in Percy’s _Reliques_, in Sir
Walter Scott’s _Border Minstrelsy_, and in _Early Ballads_, edited by
Robert Bell. “_The Queen in France_” is very long, and disjointed
extracts would give but a faint idea of its quaint humour, and simple
pathos, besides which _The Bon Gaultier Ballads_ is a readily
accessible book.
In the same volume there is another, but inferior, burlesque ballad,
entitled _Little John and the Red Friar_, which deals with the vexed
question of ecclesiastical titles. Little John representing Lord John
Russell, and the Red Friar, Cardinal Wiseman, who, in 1850, was
appointed by the Pope, Lord Archbishop of Westminster, a nomination
which gave rise to much agitation and angry controversy.
――――:o:――――
THE “LAY” OF THE GOOD LORD ROSEBERY.
_A Modern Ballad._
It was the good Lord Rosebery
And he sat at the Durdans fair,
By the hour of noon in his heel-less shoon,
And the ease of an easy-chair.
“Come hither, come hither, my private scribe;
Come hither and soothly say,
What wild ducks fly, be it low, be it high,
Over London town this day.”
“O the talk flies high,” said the private scribe,
“That to-day we cross the sea,
To Calais and Brussels and fair Cologne,
And the City upon the Spree.
“And its O, but I know, when the loud winds blow
And the sea climbs high on the strand,
It is I that am wan as the wan water
Or ever I win to land.”
“Nay, peace, good fellow,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“Till the actual qualms befall,
And tell me, I pray, what men may say
Of the mails which we travel withal.”
“O they say you have ta’en a despatch-box stout,
But and a Gladstone bag,
With a bottle of blacking and brush inside
Wrapped up in the British flag.”
“But tell me, O tell me, my private scribe,
Come tell me, and soothly say,
How fared you with yon smart interviewèr
Who interviewed you this day?
“What learnt he of us and our secret plans?
Sith he comes of a questing tribe,
Did he ask what we’re at? hath he smelt of a rat?
Say soothly, my private scribe.”
“Now Heaven be good to thee, good my lord!”
Quo’ the scribe in high chagrin,
“Dost think from the face of thy faithful clerk
That his mother him bore yestreen?
“O many’s the chiel taking notes I have known
And many a one sent back
With the saut, saut scent of the red herring
Drawn featly across his track.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“’Tis well that the rogues should stray.
But tell me, my scribe, what _think_ they of us?
What of our little game think they?”
“O some there were who talked full wise
Of the Germans beyond the sea,
And the purposes dark of the grim Bismarck
On the coast of New Guinea;
“And who seemed cocksure you were seeking the Prince――
’Twas thus that the rumour ran――
With additional swag in the Gladstone bag
As a bribe from the grand old man.”
“But said they nought,” said the Minister bold;
Come tell me, my follower good,
Of the Muscovite pranks on the Murghab’s banks,
And the banks of the Heri Rud?”
“O ay! O ay! there were some who deemed
Of your mission to Germany thus:
That you go to engage the honest brokèr
To square the advancing Russ.”
Full loud the good Lord Rosebery laughed,
And his head went to and fro;
Jack-fools are they who suppose that to-day
One needs over sea to go.
“A word flies fleet on the lightning’s feet,
And ’twere best without ‘mission’ or fuss;
Let the wire give hints to the broker-Prince
To square the advancing Russ.”
But the scribe look’d up from his newspapèr,
And a white-faced scribe was he;
“Too late may a man be, dear my lord,
Though he wait not to cross the sea.
“For the foot of a Fate that is bent on war
May outstrip a surrendering wire;
Our allies and our foes are already at blows,
And the fat’s in the Afghan fire.”
_The Saturday Review._ April 11, 1885.
――――:o:――――
A BALLAD OF THE GREAT ELECTION BATTLE.
DECEMBER, 1885.
(_Some way after Drayton’s Ballad of Agincourt._)
Fair stood the wind (we thought),
Ere the great fight was fought,
Much hoping, fearing nought,
On marched our heroes.
But when, whilst banners flew,
First Orange closed with Blue,
Our hopes soon tumbled to
Chillest of zeros!
When in his height of pride,
Joe did the foe deride,
And “Ransom” loudly cried,
Many offending;
When he forgot the while
_Rob Roy’s_ not English style,
Cecil did darkly smile,
Mischief portending.
And, turning to his men,
Quoth our sage William then,
“Bearded in our own den?
I _am_ amazéd!
But battles ill begun
By pluck are often won.
Close ranks, and fight like fun!
Joe has gone craséd.
“But for myself,” quoth he,
This my last fight may be.
England will mock at me,
No more esteem me,
If vanquished I remain,
In this great fray fall slain;
Close up and charge again
Loss to redeem me!
“’Eighty’ our foes may tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
Not less our skill is
Than when great Ben we beat;
That conquest we’ll repeat
If you but follow fleet
One standard――Willie’s!”
* * * * *
(_Five verses omitted._)
Dilke held a stubborn pike,
Harcourt as Thor did strike,
Smiting down smashers like
Hammer on anvil;
Morley his axe did ply,
Bright and young Rosebery
Bore them right doughtily,
Derby and Granville!
All in December grey
Fought was this wondrous fray,
Brave Britons, as when they
Lopped the French lillies!
Acts these to fill a pen!
Must not all Englishmen
Hops we may breed again
Hearts like Auld Willie’s?
_Punch._ December 19, 1885.
――――
THE BATTLE OF THE BALLOT.
(_Another imitation of Drayton’s Ballad,_)
See, where the hosts advance,
As on their steeds they prance,
Flashing the sword and lance,
Eager for glory!
Hear ye the battle din;
Who will be “Out” or “In”――
Which of the twain will win――
Lib’ral or Tory?
Salisbury, helmetless,
On with his lance doth press
Theat’ning with dire distress
Will o’ the Collars!
_He_, with uplifted axe,
Never true valour lacks――
Sore doth his vigour tax
“Squire” G., who “follers.”
Randolph, the Slangy Knight,
Joins in the furious fight――
See, too, Free-Trader Bright――
“Joe,” too, of Land-fame!
See while the Tories “fake,”
Lib’rals the cry awake――
“Win, Gladstone, win, and make
Grander your grand fame!”
_Fun._ December 2, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS.
God rest you merry, gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay;
Not even the dyspeptic _plats_
Through which you’ll eat your way;
Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills
The season bids you pay;
No, nor the ever tiresome need
Of being to order gay;
Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch
If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights――they’re sure to come――
When “waits” attune their lay;
Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness
Might turn macassar grey;
Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,
And ravenous of play;
Nor yet――in fact, the host of ills
Which Christmases array.
God rest you merry gentlemen,
May _none_ of these dismay!
_Funny Folks._ January, 1880.
――――:o:――――
KING JOHN IN A COCKED HAT.
A Parody on the famous old Grimaldian song, called “_The Frog in the
Opera Hat_.”
John Kemble he would an acting go,
Heigho! says Kemble;
He raised the price which he thought too low,
Whether the public would let him or no;
With his roly-poly, gammon and spinnage,
And ho! say manager Kemble.
The mob at the door made a mighty din,
Heigho! says Kemble;
They dashed like devils thro’ thick and thin,
And over the benches came tumbling in,
With their roly, &c.
’Twill do, says manager Kemble.
Soon as they pass’d Will Shakespeare’s hall,
Heigho! says Kemble;
They thought the lobbies were much too small,
So they gave a loud roar, and they gave a loud bawl,
With roly, &c.
Hollo! says manager Kemble.
Pray _what do you want_? (in a sort of a huff)
Heigho! says Kemble;
Says Mr. Leigh――“Nonsensical stuff,
Pho, none of your gammon, you know well enough.
With your roly, &c.
You do, great manager Kemble;
He held by the tip his opera-hat,
Heigho! says Kemble;
“Indeed the concern’s as poor as a rat;”
Says Bull, “No dam’me, we won’t stand that,”
With our roly, &c.
’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.
He folded his arms, in a sad nonplus,
Heigho! says Kemble;
With Queen Anne’s prices he made a fuss,
Says Bull, “what the devil’s Queen Anne to us,”
With roly, &c.
’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.
He swore to himself an oath, by Styx,
Heigho! says Kemble.
Kind ladies and gentlemen, none of your tricks,
I love _seven_ shillings much better than six,
With my roly, &c.
I do, says manager Kemble.
Then roar’d the gallery, gentle souls,
Heigho! says Kemble;
No private boxes, no pigeon-holes,
We’ll dowse your glims, in a crack, by goles,
With roly, &c.
No, don’t, says manager Kemble.
_The Morning Chronicle._ November, 7, 1809.
During the O.P. riots at Covent Garden Theatre, in 1809, a certain Mr.
Henry Clifford was a very conspicuous opponent to the new prices as
fixed by John Kemble. Finally the management of the Theatre had to
concede nearly all the claims advanced by the O.P. party through their
spokesman, Clifford, and the victory was celebrated in the following
lines:――
Hal Clifford would once a reforming go,
Heigho! says Clifford;
He swore by the mass, that he’d nonsuit his foe,
And under his jerkin he hid his flambeau;
With his roly, poly, gammon and spinage,
“I’ll do it” roar’d patriot Clifford.
He went to the pit, where he saw a great fray,
Heigho! says Clifford;
“We want” cried O.P. “those vile boxes away,”
For if they don’t sin there, I’m sure that they may,”
With a roly, poly, gammon and spinage,
“They shall vanish” said patriot Clifford.
* * * * *
Now he swears reformation has got a new tune,
Heigho! said Clifford;
Lo! he and John Kemble, like loon scratching loon,
Sip their dramatic broth with the very same spoon;
With roly, poly, gammon and spinnage,
“It’s over” said patriot Clifford.
The last lines refer to the Dinner of Reconciliation which took place
at the Crown and Anchor Tavern on January 4th, 1810, when Mr. Clifford
took the chair, supported by the most prominent of the O. P. party,
and Messrs. John Kemble and Harris represented the management of
Covent Garden Theatre. For full details of these extraordinary
proceedings the reader is referred to the _Covent Garden Journal_ (J.
J. Stockdale, London), 1810.
THE NEW MAGAZINE.
Campbell would a writing go,
Heigh ho! said Colburn.
Campbell would a writing go,
Whether the people would let him or no,
With a Cockrane, Pickersgill, gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.
Off he set with the “Pleasures of Hope,”
Heigh ho! said Colburn.
On the road he spouted from Pope,
With his absent, thoughtless!――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.
He soon arrived at the Union Club,
Heigh ho! said Redding;
And he knocked at the door with a rub-a-dub-dub,
And an English, Irish――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho! said Cyrus Redding.
Pray Mr. Redding, Are you within?
Heigh ho! said Campbell;
Yes, dear Tom, I’m drinking my gin,
With a lemon, sugar――gammon and spinach――
Heigh ho! said the longing Campbell.
Well Mr. Redding, I’ll have some too,
Heigh ho! said Campbell;
Aye, if you pay for it, that you may do,
With a spoon and tumbler――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho and the devil! said Campbell.
Pray Mr. Campbell, what brought you here?
Heigh ho said a _Lady_;――
I’m making a new magazine, my dear,
A _Metropolitan_――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho, indeed! said the Lady.
I’ve left the “New Monthly” once and for all,
Well done, said Redding;
And now I’m determined to work for its fall,
With its portraits, memoirs――gammon and spinage――
I’m very glad of it, said Redding.
Perhaps you’ll help me over the style;
That I will, said Redding:
So they sat down with a smirk and a smile,
With pens and paper――gammon and spinage――
Tom Campbell and Cyrus Redding.
They had written prospectus――quaff’d their gin.
I’m devilish tired, said Redding.
When Picken and Roscoe came tumbling in
With James and _Marryatt_――gammon and spinage――
You’re the _King’s Own_, said Redding.
Campbell rose, and with voice so sweet,
Gentlemen all, said Campbell,
I’ll give you fifteen guineas a sheet
For your tales and politics――gammon and spinage
So you ought to write well, said Campbell.
I mean to be independent quite,――
The devil you do? said Roscoe.
I _begin_ to think it’s nothing but right,
And better than puffing, gammon and spinage,
To be sure so it is, said Roscoe.
They then retired, each and all,
All alone was Campbell;
And they finished their articles, great and small,
Poems, advertisements, gammon and spinage,
And sent them away to Campbell.
Under a cover the numbers were bound,
Heigh ho! said the reader:
Cochrane and partner sent them round
To the nobles, gentry, gammon and spinage,
Heigh ho! said the gentle reader.
_The National Omnibus._ May 13, 1831.
Thomas Campbell, the Poet, was editor of _The New Monthly Magazine_,
Cyrus Redding was his literary subordinate, and Henry Colburn was the
publisher. The _Lady_ here referred to was doubtless intended for Lady
Morgan.
――――
LEAP FROG.
_Dedicated to_ PRINCE NAPOLEON, THE DUKE OF MALAKHOFF, MARSHALS
CANROBERT, BOSQUET, _and the other French officers present at the late
Crimean banquet at Paris_.
Froggy must a warring go――
Heigh ho, so slowly!
Froggy must a warring go,
By the Emperor’s orders, like it or no,
With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so slowly!
So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue,
Heigh ho, so growly,
So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue,
And there found John Bull with a soldier or two,
With his good-natured Raglan, Lucan, and Cardigan,
Heigh ho, so scowly!
When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run――
Heigh ho, so easy!
When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run,
It was Froggy, of course took the one captured gun,
With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet, and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so easy!
When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue――
Heigh ho, so foully!
When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue,
To John Bull, of course, the delay was due,
With his easy Lord Raglan, Lucan and Cardigan,
Heigh ho, so growlly!
When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack”――
Heigh ho, so slowly!
When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack,”
Of course, Froggy held left and right attack,
With his bouncing Pelissier, Bosquet, and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so slowly!
When six to one did at Inkermann fight――
Heigh ho, so boldly!
When six to one did at Inkermann fight,
It was Froggy, of course, that defended the height,
With his terrible _Chasseurs_, _Zouaves_, and _Indigénes_,
Heigh ho, so boldly!
When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse――
Heigh ho, so quickly!
When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse,
The “thin red line” was Froggy’s of course,
With his blundering Lucan, Campbell, and Highlanders,
Heigh ho, so quickly!
When the Allies’ assault was repulsed in June――
Heigh ho, so foully!
When the Allies’ attack was repulsed in June,
’Twasn’t Froggy began the attack too soon,
With his Duke of Malakhoff, Bosquet, and Company,
Heigh ho, so foully!
When at last Sebastopol city was ta’en――
Heigh ho, so slowly
It was Froggy did all――except lose the Redan,
With his thundering D’Angely, Bosquet, and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so slowly!
In short, the Siege of Sebastopol――
Heigh ho, so wholly!
In short, the Siege of Sebastopol,
Was Froggy’s achievement, whole and sole,
With his Admiral Hamelin, Bosquet, and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so wholly!
Of what laurels there are to win and wear――
Heigh ho, so seedy!
Of what laurels there are to win and wear,
Of course, Froggy claims the Lion’s share,
With his Dukes and his Marshals, Bosquet and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so greedy!
_Punch._ January 31, 1857.
――――
THE FROG WHO WOULD A-WOOING GO.
A Premier would a-wooing go,
(“Boo! boo!” says Randy)
Whether his Party liked it or no,
With a Salisbury, Halsbury gammon and spinach.
(“Pooh! pooh!” says pert little Randy.)
So off he went in a terrible pet,
(“Ta-ta!” says Randy)
And a Whiggy Peer was the first he met,
With a Hartington haughty tone gammon and spinach.
(“Pooh! pooh!” says smart little Randy.)
“Pray, Mr. Marquis, come with me?”
(“Yah! yah!” says Randy)
“And help us to govern our great countree,
With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.”
(“Pooh! pooh!” says little Lord Randy.)
“You shall be Premier if you wish,”
(“Heigho!” says Randy)
“The principal spoon in the Tory dish
Of Salisbury, Halsbury, gammon and spinach.”
(“Boo! boo!” says cross little Randy.)
“Our Tory colours we’ll change about,”
(“Hurroo!” says Randy)
“If you’ll help to keep old Gladstone out,
With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.”
(“Yah! yah!” says sharp little Randy.)
“No! Mr. Sarum, I can’t go with you.”
(“Neither could I,” says Randy)
“If I did the bargain I quickly should rue,
With your Marshall and Snelgrove gammon and spinach.”
(“Just so!” says little Lord Randy.)
“But on my support you may depend,”
(“Oh, indeed!” says Randy)
“In need I’ll always prove your friend,
With my Liberal Unionist gammon and spinach,”
(“Oh! oh!” says spry little Randy.)
“There’s no one now but Goschen left,”
(“Invertebrate!” sneers Randy)
A chief of followers bereft,”
With a Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach,
(“Quite so!” says smart little Randy)
So off he went to Mr. G.
(“Silly Bob,” says Randy)
Who said he’d accept the Chancell’rie,
With a Northbrook, Lansdowne gammon and spinach,
(“Pooh, pooh,” says bad little Randy.)
But when he reached his home again,
(“All in the dumps,” says Randy)
Upon his head reproaches rain;
With a hurly-burly gammon and spinach.
(“Yo, ho!” sings chuckling Randy.)
It was who’s to go and who’s to rise?
(“That’s the rub!” says Randy)
Each marked the other with jealous eyes,
With a grumbling, rumbling gammon and spinach.
(“What fun!” says mischievous Randy.)
The kindest and the truest man,
(“Go it, Bob!” says Randy)
To turn him out they plot and plan,
With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach.
(“He’s old!” says cruel young Randy.)
Upon one point they all agree――
(“Only one,” adds Randy)
To banish dear Lord Iddesleigh,
With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach.
(“Hurroo!” shouts little Lord Randy.)
“But what’s to be the end of this?”
(“Deuced queer!” says Randy)
“Such a chance old Gladstone never will miss,
With his Homer, Home Rule, gammon and spinach.”
(“Heigho!” sighs sad little Randy.)
The Premier was swimming along one day,
(“What’ll come next?” says Randy)
A grand old duck came and gobbled him up,
With his Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen, and spinach.
(“All up” says little Lord Randy.)
_Pall Mall Gazette._ January 20, 1887.
When Lord Randolph Churchill resigned the Chancellorship of the
Exchequer, on account of the extravagance in the votes for the War
Office, and the Admiralty, the Marquis of Salisbury had some
difficulty in finding a successor, but at length prevailed on Mr.
Goschen to accept the post, although he had previously held office in
a Liberal Cabinet.
――――
“OLD ROWLEY!”
[Mr. and Mrs. KENDAL and Mr. ROWLEY CATHCART played _Uncle’s Will_,
and _Sweethearts_ at Osborne. HER MAJESTY presented Mrs. KENDAL with a
diamond brooch in the shape of an imperial crown, gave MR. KENDAL a
cheque for the night’s expenses of the St. James’s Theatre, and Mr. R.
CATHCART a cheque for himself. Subsequently it was announced that, as
a memorial of the performance of _David Garrick_ at Sandringham,
H.R.H. had presented Mr. CHARLES WYNDHAM with a gold cup.]
Off they went to Osborne to play,
(“Heigho!” say ROWLEY.)
Off they went to Osborne to play;
There were only Mrs. and Mr. K.,
With their ROWLEY CATHCART.
(“Would it were Greenwich.
Heigho!” sighs elderly ROWLEY.)
The first piece played was _Uncle’s Will_.
(“Ho! Ho!” laughs ROWLEY.)
They all three played in _Uncle’s Will_,
And _Sweethearts_ to follow completed the bill,
Both with ROWLEY CATHCART.
(“Glad to get finidg’d,
Heigho!” growls elderly ROWLEY.)
They greatly delighted HER MAJESTEE,
(“Hooray!” cries ROWLEY.)
They highly delighted HER MAJESTEE,
Did Mister and Missus and little ROWL_EE_,
With their tact in actin’
Little space pack’d in.
(“Heigho!” says elderly ROWLEY.)
With a brooch did her HER MAJESTY Mrs. K. deck.
(“Hooray!” shouts ROWLEY.)
Crown diamonds shining in front of her neck;
A cheque to her Hub; then the QUEEN drew a cheque
For their ROWLEY, slowly,
(“Solely and wholly
For me!” cries elderly ROWLEY.)
_Postscript._
CHARLES WYNDHAM on hearing it threw his hands up
(“Hallo!” says DAVY.)
CHARLES WYNDHAM on hearing it threw his hands up,
And into them H.R.H. chucked a gold cup,
For command obeying,
Sandringham playing,
“Hooray!” cries WYNDHAM as DAVY!
_Punch._ February 26, 1887.
――――
THE CRAFTY HAWARDEN FOX AND THE SOUR UNIONIST GRAPES.
A grey old fox sat under a vine
(Heigho! says Morley),
Ogling the grapes so plump and fine,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).
“Oh, come and be gobbled up, grapes,” said he
(Heigho! says Morley)
“It’s really a treat to be swallowed by me,
With my Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach
(Heigho! says miserable Morley)
But the grapes stuck fast to the parent stem
(Heigho! says Morley)
“We shan’t get much out of blarneying them,
With our Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley)
Then the old fox jumped, but ’twas all in vain
(Heigho! says Morley).
For he came bump on his haunches again,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).
The more he jumped the fiercer he grew
(Heigho! says Morley)
And he growled all the naughtiest growls he knew,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).
“The grapes are sour, and not fit to eat.”
(Just so, says Morley);
So the pair crawled off to their den dead beat,
With their Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
The grey old fox and his Morley.
J. W. P.
_St. Stephen’s Review._ June 18, 1887.
――――:o:――――
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
Born in Dublin in 1751. Died, July 7, 1816.
――――
Lord Byron said, “Whatever Sheridan has done, has been, _par
excellence_, always the best of its kind. He has written the best
comedy (“School for Scandal”), the best drama (“The Duenna”), the best
farce (“The Critic”), and the best address (“Monologue on Garrick”);
and, to crown all, delivered, the very best oration (the famous Begum
Speech) ever conceived, or heard in this country.”
In addition to The School for Scandal, The Duenna, and The Critic,
Sheridan wrote St. Patrick’s Day, a farce; The Rivals, a comedy; A
Trip to Scarborough (partly adapted from Sir J. Vanbrugh’s “Relapse,”)
and Pizarro, a tragedy.
Sheridan was indebted to an old play written by the Duke of Buckingham
and entitled “The Rehearsal” (1672), for the main idea of “The
Critic,” but all the personal allusions in Sheridan’s farce were made
to well known contemporary characters. “The Critic” was produced at
Drury Lane Theatre in 1779. In 1780 a miserable anonymous imitation
was published by H. Kingsbury, entitled “The Critick; or, a Tragedy
Rehearsed, a Literary Catchpenny! Prelude to a Dramatic after-piece,
by R. B. Sheridan, Esq., with a Dedication, Preface, and Prologue.”
This does not appear to have been intended for the stage. Another
imitation was entitled “The Critic Anticipated; or, the Humours of the
Green Room, as rehearsed behind the curtain of the theatre in Drury
Lane, 1779.”
Coming to modern times, Mr. F. C. Burnand founded an amusing burlesque
upon the tragedy portion of “The Critic.” This was entitled
“Elizabeth; or, The Invisible Armada,” and was published in 1870, by
Tinsley Brothers, London. The favourite old characters Tilburina, Don
Ferolo Whiskerandos, and the Governor of Tilbury Fort are here
introduced; no mention is made in the printed copy as to whether this
burlesque was ever performed at any theatre.
In 1884 Sheridan’s comedy, “The Rivals,” was being played at the
Haymarket Theatre (London), with a most elaborate _mise-en-scene_,
and, perhaps, a little too much display of antiquarian accuracy in
details, to ridicule which an afterpiece, entitled “The Ar-Rivals, or
a Trip to Margate,” was produced at the Avenue Theatre on June 24,
1884. It was announced as having been written by “J. M. Banero and A.
D. Pincroft” (Pinero and Bancroft are almost too slyly hidden here),
and that it would be produced with “Real sand buckets, real wooden
spades, real periwinkles which would be eaten with real pins, and, as
far as practicable, with real appetites.”
Yet notwithstanding all this wit, the travesty was pronounced by the
critics as utterly beneath criticism, and was at once withdrawn.
Passing now from burlesques of Sheridan’s complete plays to parodies
of songs contained in them, the favourite appears to be the drinking
song which occurs in the third act of “The School for Scandal.”
LET THE TOAST PASS.
Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here’s to the widow of fifty;
Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir:
Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast pass, &c.
Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that’s as brown as a berry:
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that’s merry.
Let the toast pass, &c.
For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e’en toast them together.
Let the toast pass, &c.
These gay and flowing verses, perhaps the most popular of their class
in the language, were evidently modelled on the following song in
Suckling’s play of the _Goblins_:
‘A health to the nut brown lass
With the hazel eyes, let it pass,
She that has good eyes, &c.
Let it pass――let it pass.
As much to the lively grey,
’Tis as good in the night as the day,
She that hath good eyes, &c.
Drink away――drink away.
I pledge, I pledge, what ho! some wine,
Here’s to thine――here’s to thine!
The colours are divine;
But ho! the black, the black,
Give me as much again, and let ’t be sack;
She that hath good eyes,’ &c.
This song was appropriated by S. Sheppard, in a comedy called the
_Committee-man Curried_, 1647, without any acknowledgment of the
source from whence he stole it.
――――
SONG BY SIR ROBERT PEEL.
Here’s to each Tory and Radical too;
Just only my Income Tax pass, boys,
And you’ll see how completely John Bull I shall “do,”
By taking the duty off _glass_, boys.
Let the bill pass,
John’s such an ass,
I’ll warrant he’ll find an excuse in the glass.
Here’s the debater whose speeches we prize,
And here’s to the spouter of twaddle:
To gentlemen gifted with brains, and likewise,
To those who have none in their noddle.
Let the bill pass, &c.
Here’s unto Cobden, and here’s to Friend Bright,
The farmers’ and landowners’ friend, too;
To those who for Corn-Law monopoly fight,
And those for Free Trade who contend, too.
Here’s to the few for class interests who vote,
With a view to the loaves and the fishes;
Here’s to the many who strive to promote
Their constituents objects and wishes.
Here’s to young England and here’s unto old!
For all parties I care not a feather:
So long as you all are contented to hold,
In support of my Budget, together.
Let the Bill pass, &c.
_Punch._ March 8, 1845.
――――
LOVE, YOU MUST OWN, IS A COMICAL THING.
Love, you must own is a comical thing,
’Tis hoaxing, and coaxing, and teasing,
Its power is so great it can conquer a king,
Still its heaviest chains are oft pleasing.
Its praise let us sound,
For I will be bound,
There are nine out of ten in love all the year round.
Stoics may preach against love if they please,
Still, still I’ll declare it a pleasure;
For though a fair maiden may often times tease,
Still the girl of my heart is a treasure.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
Husbands may say when they’re wed a few years,
A wife’s a hard bargain to deal with;
But I value not their lamentations and tears,
For some lass I will soon sign and seal with,
Its praise let us sound, &c.
Let single or married rail as they will,
Yet love is the sunshine of life, sirs.
And I will stand forth as its advocate still,
Nor stop till I get me a wife, sirs.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
I am in love, as before I have said,
And no cynic my passion shall smother,
I’ll marry a wife, and when she is dead,
Why, then, I will marry another.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
Then come in our dreams, love, love it shall be,
Our joy it shall sweeten our glasses;
We’ll drink it by land, and we’ll drink it by sea,
For without it we lose all our lasses.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
BRYANT.
――――
ELECTION SONG.
Here’s to the Voter whose terms are fifteen;
Here’s to the vote that costs fifty;
Here’s to the Candidate shabby and mean,
And here’s to the one that’s not thrifty.
Let the Bill[52] pass;
’Tis but a farce;
I warrant they’ll find an excuse for a glass.
Here’s to the Voter whose freehold we prize,
Here’s to the tenant with none, Sir;
Here’s to the host who the liquor supplies,
Here’s to the beer-taps that run, Sir.
Let the Bill pass, &c.
Here’s to the Candidate, pure as the snow,
With an agent as black as a berry;
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And here’s to the bribe makes her merry.
Let the Bill pass, &c.
For let them be clumsy or cautiously trim,
Snug or open, I care not a feather;
So fill all the pewter-pots up to the brim,
And let both sides get drunk altogether.
Let the Bill pass,
He’s but an ass,
Who’s puzzled to find an excuse for a glass.
_Punch._ April 3, 1852.
――――
THE BOOKMAKER’S TOAST.
Here’s to the Ringman that’s made a grand _coup_,
And here’s to the loser, the duffer!
And here’s to the Ringman that hasn’t a screw,
And here’s to his dupes that all suffer!
Yet, don’t scruple to spend, but pay to the end,
And I’ll warrant you’ll find that the layer’s your friend.
Here’s to the ninny backs all in the race,
And here’s to the cautious beginner!
Who’s surely, though quietly, learning the _pace_,
While the old hands are spotting the winner.
Then let the toast swing, and drink to the Ring,
For I’ll warrant in time they’ll let _outsiders in_.
_The Globe._
――――
EASTER.
Easter for maidens of bashful fifteen,
Easter for lovers of fifty.
Easter for all should be mild and serene,
Not gusty and shifty and drifty.
Easter (alas!
Soon may it pass)
I warrant ’twill prove an excuse for a glass.
Easter might brighter be as to the skies,
What has become of the sun, sirs?
Easter our temper exceedingly tries,
When Easter is not a fine _one_, sirs.
_Coughing Chorus_――Easter, alas, &c.
Easter is made up of drizzle and snow,
Easter is changeable very,
Easter’s unlike what it was years ago;
But still let us all drink and be merry.
_Sneezing Chorus_――Easter, alas. &c.
――――
A TOAST TO MANKIND.
Here’s to the man with a balance in hand――
Here’s to the party who’s _minus_,
Here’s to the friend who’s unable to stand,
And here’s to the swell that will dine us.
Let the toast gee――
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be!
Here’s to the swell with a landed estate,
Here’s to the chap who has _nil_, sir,
Here’s to the card who’s presented with plate,
And, to him who’s presented a bill, sir,
Let the toast gee――
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.
Here’s to the cove with the shirt-front of snow,
Now to him who’s not even a dickey;
Here’s to him on whom Fortune all gifts doth bestow,
And to him now, with whom she is tricky.
Let the toast gee――
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.
For whether they’re sinking, or whether they swim,
Poor or wealthy, I care not a dump’s sum.
Come fill up a bumper――nay, fill to the brim,
And drink to mankind as a lump sum.
Let the toast, pray,
Pass, sir, for they
Will prove an excuse for our moistening the clay.
_Fun._
――――
HERE’S TO THE FRESHER!
Here’s to the Fresher not out of his teens;
Here’s to the fellow of forty;
Here’s to the feud with our ‘vis à vis’ Queen’s;
And here’s to the “town and gown” sortie!
_Chorus._――Toss the wine down,――
Drink to the gown,
I’ll warrant they’ll prove quite a match for the town.
Here’s to old Univ. whose trophies we prize;
Here’s to the college with none, sir:
Here’s to our “pet” with a pair of black eyes,
And here’s to his foe with but one, sir!
_Chorus._――Toss the wine down, &c.
Here’s to our “Firsts” which the Honour lists shew,
Here’s to the blows we deliver;
Here’s to our “Drag” as they merrily go;
Here’s to us Head of the River!
_Chorus._――Toss the wine down, &c.
Here’s to our time honoured “esprit de corps,”
Past or present I care not a feather;
Old Univ. will always be well to the fore,
As long as we all pull together!
_Chorus._――Toss the wine down, &c.
A. HASKETT SMITH.
Univ: Coll: Oxford.
――――
A NEW SONG FOR THE NEW TIMES.
Here’s to the motley, mellifluous host
Whose agreement might well be more hearty,
Who, of all creeds and none, yet their Unity boast――
Here’s to the Liberal Party.
Radical, Whig,
Little and big,
We all for the moment must dance the same jig.
Chamberlain rushes he doesn’t care where;
Derby is timidly backing;
Hartington sideways is dragged here and there;
Goschen keeps trimming and tacking.
Still let us pray
That for one day
We all, when the tug comes, may pull the same way.
And now for the man who can never do wrong,
Who’s name’s an electoral lever,
Whose temper is short, and whose speeches are long――
Here’s to the grand old Deceiver:
More than once tried,
Found a blind guide,
Yet still finding legions to fight at his side.
Only for plunder, and only for power,
(Fools may for principle fight on).
But for one object and but for one hour,
Interest let us unite on.
Though they look glum,
Whigs must be dumb,
And all discords be drowned by the Radical drum.
In office again shall our bonds be untied,
On that point we own no illusion;
Then as before we shall break and divide,
And all as before be confusion.
Once fairly there,
Why need we care
If Europe deride and if England despair?
Blood may flow vainly and commerce decay,
Let not your cheers be less hearty.
Honour and Empire in dust pass away,
But flourish the Liberal Party!
At his feet fall,
Vote at his call,
Whose grand old Umbrella will cover us all.
_St. James’s Gazette._ November 16, 1885.
――――:o:――――
POT AND KETTLE.
(_Some way after Sheridan._)
Smart Churchill, ’cute Chamberlain flouting and slanging,
His speeches compares to a cracked tin-pot clanging.
The mode in which Randy the argument carries on
Suggests to tired hearers another comparison.
For noise and for nuisance the claims who may settle
’Twixt Chamberlain’s pot and Lord Randolph’s old kettle?
For, alas! as a source of detestable din,
Men find sounding brass quite as bad as cracked tin.
_Punch._ November 8, 1884.
――――:o:――――
HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne’er could injure you;
For though your tongue no promise claimed,
Your charms would make me true;
To you no soul shall bear deceit
No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you’ll meet,
And lovers in the young.
For when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They’ll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother’s part;
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you’ll meet,
And lovers in the young.
R. B. SHERIDAN.
From _The Duenna_.
――――
STEWED STEAK.
Had I a pound of tender steak,
I’d use it for a stew;
And if the dish you would partake,
I’ll tell you what to do,
Into a stew-pan, clean and neat,
Some butter should be flung;
And with it stew your pound of meat,
A tender piece――but young.
And when you find the juice express’d
By culinary art,
To draw the water off, were best,
And let it stand apart.
Then, lady, if you’d have a treat,
Be sure you can’t be wrong
To put more butter to your meat,
Nor let it slew too long.
And when the steak is nicely done,
To take it off, were best;
And gently let it fry alone,
Without the sauce or zest
Then add the gravy――with of wine
A spoonful in it flung;
And a shalot cut very fine:
Let the shalot be young.
And when the whole has been combined,
More stewing ’twill require;
Ten minutes will suffice――but mind,
Don’t have too quick a fire.
Then serve it up――’twill form a treat!
Nor fear you’ve cook’d it wrong;
_Gourmets_ in all the old ’twill meet,
And _gourmands_ in the young.
_Punch._ March, 1852
[Illustration]
SONGS by Dr. CHARLES MACKAY.
JOHN BROWN, OR A PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.
I.
I’ve a guinea I can spend,
I’ve a wife, and I’ve a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I’ve a cottage of my own
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So come and drain a glass
In my arbour as you pass,
And I’ll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.
II.
I love the song of birds,
And the children’s early words,
And a loving woman’s voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers,
And the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who’d rather borrow than he’d toil, John Brown.
III.
I love a simple song
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But even when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me and above, John Brown;
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for humankind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.
IV.
So, if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I will tell you how I live so unvex’d, John Brown;
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
I’ve parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I’ve found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I’ve a hundred pounds a year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown!
C. MACKAY.
――――
JOHN BROWN’S ANSWER
TO “THE PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.”
I’ve listened to your song, and, unless I’m very wrong,
There is much in it of what we now call bosh――Tom Smith.
It is easy so to sing, but to _do_’s another thing,
And I fear that your philosophy won’t wash――Tom Smith.
Of course that’s not your name――but ’twill answer all the same
For the person I’m presumed to argue with――Tom Smith.
And offended you can’t be, as you’ve done the same to me,
For I’m no more John Brown than you’re Tom Smith――Tom Smith.
What you love and what you hate――you’re at liberty to state,――
I’ve nothing upon earth with that to do――Tom Smith.
_De gustibus non est_――I’ve no doubt you know the rest,
And besides, I’ve much the same dislikes as you――Tom Smith.
It’s on matters of finance, in which there’s no romance,
I would break with you a lance――if you please, Tom Smith.
I’m myself a family man, and I don’t believe you can
Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese――Tom Smith.
You’ve “a hundred pounds a year”――well, let’s even say it’s clear
Of income-tax, that’s not two pounds a week――Tom Smith.
But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown,
Which I grant will help your income out to eke――Tom Smith.
_Per contra_, you’ve a wife, as dear to you as life,――
I hope she is, I’m sure, for both your sakes――Tom Smith.
But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear,
If anything your little income shakes――Tom Smith.
Of children you’ve a troop――an interesting group,
But to tell how many form it you forgot――Tom Smith.
Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small.――
Of bread and butter they must eat a lot――Tom Smith.
Of their clothes you may be spare, but they cannot go _quite_
bare,
And whooping-cough and measles you must count――Tom Smith,
And if only one be ill, I’m afraid the doctor’s bill
Might at Christmas prove a serious amount――Tom Smith.
’Tis philosophy, no doubt, trifles not to fret about,
And “sufficient for the day” is a fine text――Tom Smith;
But at your garden gate do you never scratch your pate,
When you think what’s in the cupboard for the _next_――Tom Smith?
The pot you know must boil; ’twould be better sure to toil,
And add by honest labour to your store――Tom Smith,
Than moon away your time, in philosophic rhyme,
Or sitting ’neath your shady sycamore――Tom Smith.
You bid me, as I pass, come and drain with you a glass,
But it cannot be of wine, or beer, or grog――Tom Smith.
It’s more like “Adam’s Ale,” I’m afraid, than “Bass’s Pale,”
And to drink, I water shun like a mad dog――Tom Smith.
If “a guinea you’ve to spend,” I advise you as a friend,
To put it in the Savings’ Bank forthwith――Tom Smith.
You will want it before long, and sing another song,
Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth――Tom Smith.
J. R. PLANCHE.
――――:o:――――
CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!
Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way!
Hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow,
Let us forget the darkness of to-day!
So farewell, England! Much as we may love thee,
We’ll dry the tears that we have shed before;
Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?
So farewell, England! farewell evermore!
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand,
Cheer, boys! cheer! there’s work for honest labour――
Cheer, boys! cheer!――in the new and happy land!
C. MACKAY.
* * * * *
――――
BEER! BOYS, BEER!
Beer! Boys, Beer! for that’s the stuff for sorrow,
Forage out more, we will, upon our way;
The score behind the door, we’ll make right to-morrow,
When we get over the drinking of to-day.
So, farewell, Landlord, much as we may owe thee,
We’ll dry the pots up, if you’ll only draw;
Why should we sleep? let’s drink to better fortune;
So Farewell, Landlord, Farewell, old boy, hurrah!
Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country,
Beer! Boys, Beer! with pewter pot in hand;
Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who don’t mind labour,
Beer! Boys, Beer! who a gallon’s going to stand?
Beer! Boys, Beer, off the froth we’re blowing,
Our throats to freely pour down Barclay’s best;
The “Bobby” may follow in the track we’re going
The “Star and Garter” we’ll drop in, to rest,
Though we have toil, we’ve skittles to reward it,
But when we’ve plenty, we’ll do our Champagne:
Then ours shall be Port and Sherry for the poorest,
And foaming measures we’ll fill and fill again.
Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country,
Beer! Boys, Beer! united, pot in hand;
Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who hardly labour,
Beer! Boys, Beer! who the next is going to stand?
J. A. HARDWICK.
――――
VOTE, BOYS, VOTE!
Vote, boys, vote, for Freedom’s noble leader;
Shout, boys, shout, our chieftain’s battle cry.
Ireland’s wrongs at length have found a pleader
Ireland’s hope at length is drawing nigh
Long her barque has seemed like one benighted,
Drifting down a troubled, shoreless sea;
But at last a welcome haven’s sighted
Leading on to peace and liberty.
_Chorus_――Vote, boys, vote, &c.
Chamberlain and Hartington and Goschen
May attempt to thwart the nation’s will;
But the British people’s true devotion
Centres in their honoured chieftain still.
Trust again the troth he’s nobly plighted
And he’ll reach the welcome promised goal――
Erin’s sons, by ties of love united,
Shall be “one with Britain’s, heart and soul.”
F. TOPHAM.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ June 27, 1886.
――――
BEER, BOYS, BEER!
Beer, boys, beer! No more absurd restriction,
Courage, Bass, Meux, and Barclay must give way;
Half pints and quarts have vanish’d like a fiction,
Why then, submit to the brewers’ despot sway?
Brown stout of England! much as we may love thee,
(Which, by the way, I rather think we do,)
Pale draught of India, shall they charge us for ye,
Twice what you’re worth, for the profit of a few?
Beer, boys, beer! abundant, deep, and vasty!
Beer, boys, beer! the stunning, strong and grand!
Beer, boys, beer! the cheap, and not the nasty!
Beer, boys, beer! at a price a man can stand!
Beer, boys, beer! The present scale of prices,
Leads to a style of tipple not the best;
Vile Spanish root, and quassia, which not nice is,
Bad for the bile, and oppressive to the chest.
But, let’s unite with hearty agitation;
Push for our rights, and battle might and main;
And ours shall be a large yet brimming tankard
Of real wholesome stuff, brew’d out of roasted grain.
Beer, boys, beer! no more of gentian’s nausea;
Beer, boys, beer! with liquorice away!
Beer, boys, beer! no logwood chips or quassia,
Beer! boys, beer, which is all I have to say!
_Diogenes_, Vol. II. 1853.
――――:o:――――
THE GOOD TIME COMING.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought’s a weapon stronger;
We’ll win our battle by its aid;――
_Wait a little longer_.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;――
_Wait a little longer_.
* * * * *
(_Six verses omitted._)
CHARLES MACKAY.
This song, which was one of a series entitled “Voices from the Crowd,”
originally appeared in the second number of the _Daily News_ (London).
Most of Dr. Charles Mackay’s songs breathe sentiments of hope for the
future of the people, and trust in their good sense and ability to
govern themselves. Such sentiments were very unpopular forty years
ago, when revolutions were of frequent occurrence on the Continent,
and Chartism was dreaded in England. Hence Mackay’s verses were
parodied as follows:――
THE PICKPOCKET’S BLESSING.
(_By Charles Quackay._)
Curses on thee, haughty England!
Shall thy sad heart-broken child
Pray for blessings on a parent,
Who hath well-nigh made him wild?
Why should I prate of thy freedom,
When I’m laden with the weight
Of two hundred pounds of iron,
Forged by thy much-vaunted State?
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead.
Safety comes for thieves and knaves,
Felons shall not then be slaves――
Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!
When a child I prigged an apple,
When a youth I “faked a cly,”
When a man I shot a keeper;
And for this am I to die,
In a land of iron bondage,
Bound by chains I cannot break,
Scorned by every honest dotard?――
Yet some day my wrath I’ll slake!
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead! &c.
Richly fed and richly clothed,
Was the honest greasy fool,
Who in judgment sat upon me;
He, of tyrant’s wretched tool,
Ne’er, forsooth, stole fruit or kerchief;
Richly fed and richly clothed,
Each unhappy wretch he punished,
As a thing he deeply loathed.
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead, &c.
I was led before a jury,
Stuffed and gorged with choicest food;
They, vile enemies of freedom,
Sentenced me, in coolest mood,
To be bound in iron fetters,
’Midst the basest of mankind.
But though mine are chains of iron,
Theirs are chains which gird the mind!
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead!
Safety comes for thieves and knaves,
Felons shall not then be slaves――
Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!
(_Five verses omitted._)
This parody occurs in a very scarce pamphlet, of which no copy is to
be found in the Library of the British Museum, entitled _The
Puppet-Showman’s Album_, illustrated by Gavarni. This is not dated,
but it was evidently printed about 1848, or 1849. It contains
imitations, either in prose or verse, of Lord Macaulay, Bulwer Lytton,
Leigh Hunt, G. P. R. James, B. Disraeli, Charles Dickens, Charles
Lever, A. Tennyson, Thomas Carlyle, W. M. Thackeray, W. H. Ainsworth,
Douglas Jerrold, Walter Savage Landor, Mrs. Trollope, John Wilson
Croker, Charles Mackay, Albert Smith, and Coventry Patmore.
VOICES FROM THE CROWD IN FLEET STREET.
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
We may not live to see the day,
But there will be an open way
O’er the good road making:
Paviours may tear up the street,
In time they’ll make it stronger;
’Tis true they’re always at it, but
_Wait a little longer_!
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
The sewers shall supersede the gas,
When paviours, perhaps, might let us pass
O’er the good road making:
Pipes and earth shall stop the way,
Or bricks, which are the stronger,
To jobs the impulse has been given,
_Wait a little longer_!
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
Loud and fierce shall be the cry
From the cabs, that can’t get by
On the good road making:
Carts and ’busses shall contend,
To see which is the stronger,
And panels smash for smashing’s sake――
_Wait a little longer_!
(_Three verses omitted._)
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
The drivers shall be temperate,
Nor swear at such a frightful rate,
On the good road making;
They shall use――and not abuse――
Then patience will grow stronger,
When ’tis not so sorely tried,
_Wait a little longer_!
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
Let them get what aid they can,
Every boy and every man,
On the good road making:
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger,
Fleet Street will be clear――some day――
_Wait a little longer_!
GILBERT ABBOTT à BECKETT.
From _The Almanack of the Month_. September, 1846.
――――
THE WAITER.
I met the waiter in his prime
At a magnificent hotel;
His hair untinged by care or time,
Was oiled and brushed exceeding well.
When “Waiter,” was the impatient cry,
In accents growing stronger,
He seemed to murmur “By and by,
_Wait a little longer_.”
Within a year we met once more,
’Twas in another part of town――
An humbler air the waiter wore,
I fancied he was going down.
Still, when I shouted, “Waiter, bread!”
He came out rather stronger,
As if he’d say with toss of head,
_Wait a little longer_.”
Time takes us on through many a grade;
Of “ups and downs” I’ve had my run,
Passing full often through the shade,
And sometimes loitering in the sun.
I and the waiter met again
At a small inn at Ongar;
Still, when I called, ’twas almost vain,
_He bade me wait the longer_.
Another time, years since the last――
At eating-house I sought relief
From present care and troubles past,
In a small plate of round of beef.
“One beef, and taturs,” was the cry,
In tones than mine much stronger;
’Twas the old waiter standing by,
“_Wait a little longer_.”
I’ve marked him now for many a year;
I’ve seen his coat more rusty grow;
His linen is less bright and clear;
His polished pumps are on the go.
Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves――
They used to be much stronger;
The waiter’s whole appearance proves
_He cannot wait much longer_.
I sometimes see the waiter still;
’Gainst want he wages feeble strife;
He’s at the bottom of the hill,
Downward has been his path through life.
Of “Waiter, waiter,” there are cries,
Which louder grow and stronger;
’Tis to old Time he now replies
“_Wait a little longer_.”
_Punch._
――――
IT’S A LONG TIME COMING.
It’s a long time coming, boys,
A long time coming;
We may not live to see the day,
But lords their tailors’ bills shall pay
In this good time coming.
Politicians then shall speak the truth,
The people’s cause be stronger,
And thrive without e’en Cuffey’s aid――
_Wait a little longer_.
It’s a long time coming, boys,
A long time coming;
To foster foul disease shall be,
No certain proof of loyalty,
In the good time coming.
Those men that hate the use of soap
Shall not then be the stronger,
Nor poison hosts for custom’s sake――
_Wait a little longer_.
* * * * *
(_Two verses omitted._)
_The Puppet-Show._ June 3, 1848.
――――
HAPPY ARCADIA.
(“General” Booth says that “the Salvation Army is the natural antidote
to all the evils on the earth.”)
There’s a good time coming, boys
A good time coming;
The “General” has pointed out,
How all the ill’s of life he’ll rout
In the good time coming.
Tho’ fortune’s frown may threaten us,
The “Army” is still stronger,
The _War Cry’s_ raised――the battle’s won――
_Wait_ a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
Bubble companies may break,
Love-sick maiden’s hearts may ache,
Till the good time coming,
Altho’ woe now may seem supreme,
The “Army” will prove stronger,
Then mirth and jollity shall reign――
Wait a _little_ longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
Ould Oirland will be our joy,
“Deceased Wife’s Sister” won’t annoy
In the good time coming.
The Nihilists may menace us,
The “Army” still is stronger,
Our land _will_ be Utopia――
Wait a little _longer_.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
We’ll have then the Millennium,
Earth will be an Elysium,
In the good time coming.
We only need to join the “Army,”
And make it daily stronger,
And if ills yet _will_ come, why we
_Must go on waiting longer_!
_Fun._ June 16, 1886.
――――
THERE’S A GOOD TIME COMING.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
When truth and justice will prevail,
And all shall listen to the tale,
In the good time coming;
Every day shall aid our cause,
And make conviction stronger,
That Toryism’s but a snare――
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
There’s a good time coming, boys,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
Education shall be free
To the poor man’s family,
In the good time coming;
No class shall be privileged
Though it were ten times stronger.
But all shall share the general good,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
For the owners of the soil
Starving peasants shall not toil
In the good time coming;
Primogeniture shall be
No struggling people’s wronger,
Nor rents be raised at landlords’ wills,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
Sinecures shall have no pay,
Endowments shall be swept away,
In the good time coming;
A pensioned aristocracy,
Which now is growing stronger,
No longer shall impair the State,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
* * * * *
(_Several verses omitted._)
From _Songs for Liberal Electors_. 1886.
――――
LIBERAL UNION.
The past has proved a trying time,
And friends, once reckoned hearty,
Have left us now, and vengeance vow
Against the Liberal party.
And are we sorry? Truly, yes.
And hopeless? Nay, not we!
For we all know
Our cause must grow,
Till we victorious be!
Aye, our thinned ranks will fill again!
Already we grow stronger.
There’s a good time coming, boys!
So wait a little longer!
Some who have left us will come back:
Nor need the loss much grieve us
If those who flagg’d and often lagg’d
When with us, wholly leave us.
For, purged of traitors and of cowards,
With whom we’d no communion,
The country soon
Will bless that boon,
A real Liberal Union!
Then we for conquest or defence
Shall stauncher be and stronger;
Nor is this happy time far off;
We shall not wait much longer.
_Truth Christmas Number._ 1886.
――――
There was also a parody of this song in _The Hornet_, May 22, 1872,
which is now quite out of date, and another appeared in the _St.
Stephen’s Review_ for July 2, 1887. This prophesies that there will be
a “good time coming” when an eminent politician goes to――――a certain
warm but unmentionable place――the good taste of which assertion might
not be obvious to some over sensitive people, so the parody is
omitted.
Dr. Mackay wrote a number of other songs. “To the West! To the West!”
was very popular; it was imitated in some verses entitled “I’m in
Love! I’m in Love!”; whilst “Far, far upon the sea” was parodied by J.
A. Hardwick as “Pa, out upon the spree,” in three very coarse and
slangy verses, which cannot have a place here.
CAREY’S “SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.”
――――
LABBY IN OUR ABBEY.
Of all the Rads that are so smart
There’s none like witty Labby;
He’s played of late a leading part,
So he’ll be at the Abbey;
No institution in the land
Escapes the sneers of Labby,
But all the same, I understand,
He’s going to the Abbey.
Of all the days within the week
There’s one that will be _the_ day,
And that’s a day that’s quite unique,
Victoria’s Jubilee Day.
Then he’ll be dressed in all his best
With nothing old or shabby;
He may be snarling in his heart,
But he’ll be at the Abbey.
He tried to dock the vote, you know,
For fitting up the Abbey;
Perhaps he’d like the Queen to go
And hail the nearest cabby;
All sentiment for England’s Queen
He designates as “flabby;”
But _Truth_ must needs describe the scene,
So he’ll be at the Abbey.
_The Globe._ June 20, 1887.
――――
LABBY AND HIS BABBY.
Of all the would-be witty Rads
There’s none like clowning Labby;
He is the Mother Gamp of fads
And farms the Home Rule Babby.
Not even Lawson, of the Pump,
Whose jokelets all are flabby,
When on the water-swilling stump,
Is in the hunt with Labby.
In fine old Saxon flowers of speech,
A bargee or a cabby
Would own there’s nothing left to teach
The conscript Father Labby.
Bad are his jokes, but even worse
His Parliamentary manners,
And so he’s chosen for dry-nurse
By Conybeares and Tanners.
On all the days right through the week,
From Monday until Friday,
Incessantly does Labby speak,
He never has a bye-day;
And, sucking at Obstruction-pap,
The wizened Home Rule babby
Squalls, howls, and chokes, upon the lap
Of Parnell’s dry-nurse Labby.
J.W.P.
_St. Stephen’s Review._ July 2, 1887.
[Illustration]
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.
Better known as BARRY CORNWALL.
Born about 1787. Died October, 1874.
――――:o:――――
THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY.
Sing!――Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah! who is this lady fine?
The Vine, boys, the Vine!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she
O’er wall and tree,
And sometimes very good company.
Drink!――Who drinks
To her who blusheth and never thinks?
Ah! who is this maid of thine?
The Grape, boys, the Grape!
O, never let her escape
Until she be turned to Wine!
For better is she
Than Vine can be,
And very, very good company!
Dream!―― Who dreams
Of the God that governs a thousand streams?
Ah! who is this Spirit fine?
’Tis Wine, boys, ’tis Wine!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O, better is he
Than Grape or tree,
And the best of all good company.
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
AN OMNIBUSIAN SONG.
Ride! Who rides
In a ’bus that taketh twelve insides?
Ah! who is this lady fine
That falls on this lap of mine?
A lady is she,
As big as three.
I prefer her room to her company.
Smoke! Who smokes
To the great annoyance of other folks?
Ah! who is this snob so fine?
A gent, Sirs! a gent!
He comes with the noxious scent
Of tobacco, beer, and wine:
Far better that he
On the roof should be.
I prefer his room to his company.
_Punch._ September 17, 1853.
――――
Sing! Who sings
Of him who weareth the fine gold rings,
Ah, who is the party fine?
The Jew I divine,
Who works the Brummagem line.
In “h’s” he
Is a dealer free,
And very unpleasant company.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
A CHAUNT FOR THE CHOUSED.
Dine? who’d dine
At eight shillings a head, or even nine,
With the heaviest price for the lightest wine?
Ah! that house I know too well,
’Tis your “first-class” Hotel:
Sad “Tales of my Landlord” there they tell
Far better for me
To order tea,
And go dinnerless at that hostelry.
Sleep? who’d sleep
Where a standing army their quarters keep,
And in countless legions upon you creep?
Ah! whose form is that I see,――
A flea! Sirs, a flea!
He cometh to sup off me.
Far better, say I,
On the sofa to lie;
I prefer his room to his company.
Stay? who’d stay
To be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way,
And live at the rate of a fortune a day?
Ah! who’ll expose their crimes?
The _Times_, Sirs, the _Times_,
The waiter his fee declines;
Tell the landlord from me
Him further I’ll see,
Ere again I’ll be fleeced at his hostelry.
_Punch._ October, 1853.
――――:o:――――
THE SEA.
The sea, the sea, the open sea,
The blue, the fresh, the ever free:
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide region round:
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea,
I am where I would ever be,
With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, O how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
Where every mad wave drowns the moon,
And whistles aloft its tempest tune:
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west wind doth blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest――
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea.
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
The whale it whistled, the porpoise roll’d,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As welcom’d to life the ocean child.
I have lived since then in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a rover’s life,
With wealth to spend, and a power to range,
But never have sought or sighed for change;
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
THE CAM, THE CAM.
The Cam! the Cam! the dirty Cam!
The green, the brown, the black, the blue!
Of every shade, of every hue,
It runneth the list of colours through!
It plays with the sedge, it stagnant crawls,
Or like an o’erfilled kennel brawls.
I’m on the Cam! I’m on the Cam!
Where I never again will be, I am;
With the blue above, and the mud below,
And weeds are wheresoe’er I go――
From _The Individual_. November 29, 1836. Cambridge: W. H. Smith.
――――
THE PIPE.
The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe!
The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe!
Its odorous puffs without a sound,
They float my head’s wide regions round;
They rise in clouds and mock the skies,
While _Backy_ snugly cradled lies.
My hookha wide! my hookha deep!
I’ve that which I would ever keep;
With the smoke above, and smoke below,
And smoke wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring
What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing.
What matters, &c.
I love――oh! how I love to smoke,
And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak!
And when its waves have drowned my soul,
I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!”
Don’t ask me where the world is going,
Nor why the sou’-west _blast_ is blowing.
I never breathed the dull tame air,
But I relished my great pipe mair and mair,
And back again flew for a soothing puff,
Like a bird――I’m sure that’s quick enough.
My _mother_ it is, and I’ll prove it to ye,
(Much more of a mother than the open sea!)
For _smoking_, I am at it ever and ever!
I hope your comment on this line is “clever!”
For fear of growing at all lackadaisical
I hasten to lay down my pen _parody_-sical;
In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat
’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come
I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon,
These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on.
From _The Individual_. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.
――――
THE GIN, THE GIN!
The gin! the gin! Hodge’s Cordial Gin!
It fairly makes our heads to spin;
It gives us marks, and without bound,
It turneth our head completely round;
It plays with our eyes, it mocks our brain,
And sends us rolling in the drain.
I love the gin! I love the gin!
And in a butt of it I could swim,
Or ever live among butts below,
For the juniper’s taste so well I know;
If a drunken storm should rise, and a row begin,
What matter? We’ll settle it all with Gin.
I love, I love――oh, how I love to bide,
With a flowing gin-cask by my side;
Where every quartern gives relief,
We whistle a stave, and drown all grief;
And when our browns to the host we show,
The gin-cock then will merrily flow.
I never tasted watery swipes,
But I always found they gave me the gripes;
So back I flew to my favourite juice,
Until my sorrows were all reduced.
No three-outs I’ll have, but my whack to the brim.
For when I was born my mother gave me gin.
The gin it flow’d the glasses to adorn,
On the drunken hour when I was born;
The nurse she sang, but I did scream,
My mother called out for valley’s cream;
And never was known such a drunken crush,
As welcomed to life this child of lush!
I’ve lived since then in riot and din,
Full thirty winters quite warm with gin;
With ready blunt to the shops I range,
But where I find it good I never change;
And Death, whene’er it comes so grim,
Shall find me guzzling Hodge’s gin.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE MAIL! THE MAIL!
The Mail! The Mail! The Royal Mail,
The black, the red, the never pale;
Without a bar, without a gate
She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight,
She plays with the stones, she mocks the sands,
Or like a tilted waggon stands.
I’m on the Mail, I’m on the Mail!
I am where I would ever sail,
With the dust before and the dust behind,
And driving straight before the wind,
If a storm should come, and disturb my ride,
What matter! what matter! I can jump inside.
I love, O! how I love to drive,
To urge the wheelers all alive,
While every loose stone strikes the box,
Or rattles aloft and the boot top knocks,
And tells how goeth the road below,
Or why the panting leaders blow,
I never was in a dull post chaise,
But on the Mail was fain to gaze,
And jumped again on the buoyant box,
Like an ape that sits on its native rocks,
And my native place I always hail,
For I was born, was born in the “Royal Mail.”
The roads were rough, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born,
The wind it whistled, the sign-board swung,
The leaders jobled, and out they flung,
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the coachman’s child.
I have lived since then on ale and gin,
Full fifty summers and not grown thin,
With a coach to run and a team to drive,
And never have sought or sighed to wive,
And love if ever in that I engage,
Must come on the fast light bounding Stage.
From _Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster_, Dublin. No date.
――――
THE ROAD.
The road, the road, the turnpike road!
The brown, the hard, the smooth, the broad,
Without a check, without an end,
Horses against horses on it contend;
Men laugh at the gate, they bilk the tolls,
Or stop and pay like honest souls.
I’m on the road, I’m on the road,
I’m never so blithe as when abroad,
With the hills above, and the vales below,
And merry wheresoever I go,
If the opposition appears in sight
What matters――we’ll soon make that all right.
I love――oh! how I love to ride,
With a smiling damsel by my side,
Where every prad keeps well his pace,
Nor draws my eye from the sweet one’s face.
Nought tells how goeth the time of day,
Nor why the hours so fly away.
I never heard the angry sea roar,
But I love the dry land more and more;
And away have flown to my box and reins,
For whips and wheel sounds are my favourite strains;
On my team is all my care bestow’d,
For I was born on the turnpike road!
The clouds were dark, and grey the morn,
In the hazy hour when I was born;
The guard he whistled, the coach it roll’d,
And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold,
And never was heard such a curious din,
As when the road-child the world popt in.
I have driven since then in fair and rough,
Full forty winters, a traveller tough,
With primest of cattle, and carriages neat,
And never had a spill or beat,
And death, whenever he looks for me,
Shall come on the road, and not on the sea.
From _The London Singer’s Magazine_.
――――
THE STEAK.
Of steak, of steak――of prime rump steak――
A slice of half-inch thickness take,
Without a blemish, soft and sound;
In weight a little more than a pound.
Who’d cook a steak――who’d cook a steak,
Must a fire clear proceed to make:
With the red above and the red below.
In one delicious, genial glow.
If a coal should come, a blaze to make,
Have patience! You mustn’t put on your steak.
First rub――yes, rub――with suet fat,
The gridiron’s bars, then on it flat,
Impose the meat; and the fire soon,
Will make it sing a delicious tune,
And when ’tis brown’d by the genial glow,
Just turn the upper side below.
Both sides with brown being cover’d o’er,
For a moment you broil your steak no more,
But on a hot dish let it rest,
And add of butter a slice of the best;
In a minute or two the pepper-box take,
And with it gently dredge your steak.
When seasoned quite, upon the fire
Some further time it will require;
And over and over be sure to turn
Your steak till done――nor let it burn:
For nothing drives me half so wild
As a nice rump steak in the cooking _spiled_.
I’ve lived in pleasure mixed with grief,
On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef;
With plenty of cash, and power to range,
But my steak I never wished to change:
For a steak was always a treat to me,
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.
_Punch._
――――
THE TEA! THE TEA!
The tea! the tea! the genuine tea!
Souchong, Young Hyson, Gunpowder, Bohea――
Without a leaf that was not found,
Growing on Noqua’s famous ground.
It fills the teapot, and from the spout,
The hand of beauty pours it out.
I’m for the tea! I’m for the tea!
No chocolate, coffee, or such for me――
No sky-blue milk to blend with its flow――
No silence when round doth the tea-tray go!
If friends drop in, we will hail with glee
Their presence, and quaff our cups of tea!
I love――oh! how I love to sip,
The green――green tea with my willing lip,
When the toast is brown and the muffins hot,
And there’s plenty of tea in the China pot,
And to talk some scandal and how below,
Matters and things in this world do go.
I never sat down with a dull tame “bore,”
But I loved a tea-party more and more;
And I backward flew to the cheerful sup
Like a bird that nibbles its sugar up;
And sugar it was, and more to me,
For ’twas blent with the flavour of good green tea.
The clouds were dull and rainy the morn――
So the gossips say when I was born.
The kettle sung and the jest was told,
And the teacups and saucers were green and gold.
And never was heard such a chattering wild,
As welcomed to Congo the China child.
I’ve lived since then upon “heavy wet,”
And all sorts of drinks which a man can get,
With splitting headaches and purpled nose,
With empty pockets and tattered clothes!
But I’ve signed the pledge, and when death seeks me,
He shall find me over a cup of tea!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE SEE.
The See, the See, the wealthy See!
I can’t resign it gratis free;
Within the mark――within fair bounds――
I think I may say six thousand pounds――
That is little enough――but one’s heart’s in the skies――
Therefore one can’t be worldly wise.
I’m in the See, I’m in the See,
I am where I may ever be.
Suppose I do not choose to go,
What do you say then; yes or no?
Of the whole of the income I stand possessed,
And I can’t be turn’d out of my mother’s nest,
For a Mother the Church has been to me,
And I was born for her fattest See.
I love my See, my wealthy See,
I scorn the idea of Simony;
But I must take care what I’m about,
Six thousand a-year and I’ll turn out.
My offer you had better take,
And you will, if you are wide awake,
For Death, whenever he comes to me,
Can alone compel me to quit my See.
_Punch._ August 2, 1856.
――――
THE TEA.
_By Carry Bornwall._
The tea! the tea! the beef, beef tea!
The brew from gravy-beef for me!
Without a doubt, as I’ll be bound,
The best for an invalid ’tis found;
It’s better than gruel; with sago vies;
Or with the cradled babe’s supplies.
I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea,
I’m satisfied, and aye shall be,
With the brew I love, with the brew I know,
And take it wheresoe’er I go.
If the price should rise, or meat be cheap
No matter! I’ll to beef-tea keep.
I love――oh, how I love to guide
The strong beef-tea to its place inside,
When round and round you stir the spoon,
Or whistle thereon to cool it soon.
Because one knoweth, or ought to know,
That things get cool whereon you blow.
I never have drunk the dull souchong,
But I for my loved beef-tea did long,
And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,
Like a bird: as a child on that I messed――
And a mother it was and is to me,
For I was weaned on the beef――beef-tea!
TOM HOOD, the younger.
――――
OPERATIC MEM.
“When the C. from the chest is produced for the first time, the
delight of the tenor is supposed to be so great that he bursts out
into something like the following:
THE C! The C!
The ALTO C!
Most singers never get past B,
Nor reach that most expensive sound.
The C, which now at last I’ve found,――
The C! that treasure which to gain,
Lessees shall hunt no more in vain.
I’m up to C!
I’m up to C!
I am where I ne’er hoped to be!”
_Diogenes_, Volume ii. 1853.
――――
THE VAN-DEMON.
The Van, the Van! the hurrying Van!
Terror alike of beast and man;
With awful rush and roaring sound
It thunders merrily over the ground.
It smashes the cabs, it crushes the flies,
Before it in ruin the tax-cart lies.
I’m on the Van, I’m on the Van!
Let people get out of the way who can.
Jolly the day when the Van was born,
In the noddle of Pickford, or Chaplin and Horne;
Says they, “The people denounce as slow
The waggons so huge from our yards that go.
We’ll build a Van that hath equal space,
And horse it with horses that go the pace;
With a scowling blackguard the box we’ll man,
Let people get out of the way who can.”
I have lived since then in storm and strife,
The fierce Van-Demon’s right jovial life.
I drive like mad,――if a cove complains,
He gets an oath or a cut for his pains;
And right and left doth the traffic fly,
When my thundering Juggernaut car comes by.
I scrunch folks’ spokes as you’d scrunch a fan――
Let people get out of the way who can.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1859.
――――:o:――――
KING DEATH.
King Death was a rare old fellow,
He sat where no sun could shine,
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And pour’d out his coal-black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine.
* * * * *
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
SONG OF JULY.
July is a rare old fellow,
He’s a month when the sun does shine;
He makes the pear quite mellow,
Sagittarius is his sign.
Hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why,
For that rare old month――a hot July.
The Quail, that ne’er deceives us,
Now makes his morning call;
The fickle cuckoo leaves us,
But that’s the way with them all.
Then hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why,
For that blazing month――a hot July.
_Punch’s Almanac._ 1846.
――――:o:――――
THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.
How gallantly, how merrily we ride along the sea!
The morning is all sunshine, the wind is blowing free,
The billows are all sparkling and bounding in the light,
Like creatures in whose sunny veins the blood is running bright.
All nature knows our triumph, strange birds about us sweep,
Strange things come up to look at us――the masters of the deep!
In our wake, like any servant, follows even the bold shark――
Oh, proud must be our admiral of such a bonny bark!
Oh, proud must be our admiral (though he is pale to-day)
Of twice five hundred iron men who all his nod obey!
Who’ve fought for him and conquered, who’ve won with sweat and
gore
Nobility, which he shall have whene’er he touch the shore!
Oh, would I were an admiral, to order with a word――
To lose a dozen drops of blood, and straight rise up a lord!
I’d shout to yon bold shark there, which follows in our lee,
“Some day I’ll make thee carry me like lightning through the sea!”
Our admiral grew paler, and paler, as we flew,
Still talk’d he to the officers, and smiled upon the crew;
And he look’d up at the heavens, and he look’d down on the sea,
And at last he saw the creature that was following in our lee!
He shook――’twas but an instant: for speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart, till all chances he defied;
It threw boldness on his forehead, gave firmness to his breath,
And he look’d like some grim warrior new risen up from death!
That night a horrid whisper fell on us where we lay――
And we knew our fine old admiral was changing into clay
And we heard the wash of waters, though nothing could we see――
A whistle and a plunge among the billows on our lee;
Till dawn we watched the body in its dead and ghastly sleep,
And next evening at sunset it was slung into the deep;
And never from that moment, save one shudder through the sea,
Saw we, or heard the creature that had followed in our lee!
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
THE RETURN OF THE OMNIBUS.
How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane,
The passengers all hope to catch the eight o’clock up-train;
The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly,
Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry:
And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep;
Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from windows peep.
A free-school urchin hangs behind some way upon the road――
Oh! proud must be our omnibus of such a jolly load!
And proud is Tom, the driver, too, who smiles, and well he may,
Of twice three people (in and out) who’ll each a shilling pay;
He’s proud, too, of that old grey horse, who earns so very hard
The hay and water he shall have when once more in his yard.
Oh, would that I were Tom, to drive and order with a word,
That old grey horse, whose harness is made up of tape and cord,
I’d shout unto the free-school boy who’s hanging on our lee,
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll whip behind, as quickly you shall see.’
Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along,
Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song;
And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight;
And then we thought we heard him say ‘I think we is too late.’
He shook――’twas but an instant――we saw his fearful plight,
The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right.
He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath,
And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death.
We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again!
We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the ‘eight up-train.’
And next we heard a rush of steam, but nothing could we see,
But a whistle and a puff among the fir-trees on our lee.
We watched the passing vapour till it vanished round the steep,
Then back again t’wards home with all our luggage did we creep;
But never from that moment, having once been ‘sold,’ again
We patronised the omnibus that always missed the train.
From _A Pottle of Strawberries_, by Albert Smith.
――――
THE ALDERMAN.
(_By a Parishioner of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook._)
How gallantly, how merrily, they ride upon their way;
Fleet Street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day!
The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright,
Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight.
All London owns their triumph, they ride along two deep,
Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they
keep.
In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and
stark;
Oh! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark?
* * * * *
(_Five verses omitted._)
_Punch._ 1844.
――――
THE CRUIZE OF THE OLD ADMIRAL.
How crazily, how lazily,
We creep along the sea;
Our upper works are straining,
Our hull is rolling free;
Our lower ports they baffle
Attempts to caulk ’em tight,
Like scuppers, through whose leaky seams
The water runs outright!
E’en coal-brigs o’er us triumph,
Smart yachts about us sweep;
Green’s ships come up to look at us――
The slow-coach of the deep!
In their wake, like any servant,
We sail from day to dark;
Oh, proud must be our Admiral-
-ty Lords of such a barque!
And proud must be our Admiral
(He’s seventy-four to-day)
Of turning out on duty,
Whate’er the doctors say;
He has fought with them and conquered,
Although ’twas mad, they swore,
To go to sea, when he should have
Been laid up snug on shore.
Oh, if I were an Admiral
I wouldn’t be on board,
I’d stay in London, if I could,
And be made a Junior Lord;
I’d write to the Prime Minister,
“Just find a place for me,
For a sheer hulk lies Tom Bowling,
No longer fit for sea?”
Our Admiral grew paler,
And bluer and more blue,
’Midst the sniggers of the officers,
And the broad grins of the crew;
For at sixes and at sevens
His stomach well might be,
’Twas so long, the poor old creature!
Since he had been at sea.
He heaved――’twas but an instant――
For the old sailor’s pride
Succeeded in the effort
His nausea to hide.
So he mopped his poor old forehead,
And held hard his wheezy breath;
And, like a steamboat passenger,
Sat, looking grim as death!
That night the surgeon’s whisper
Went round the mess to say,
That our poor old used-up Admiral
Was in a dreadful way:
Next day we beat to quarters,
In a Bath-chair wheeled was he,
With a Welsh wig, and his legs
Wrapped in fleecy hosiery!
That night a glass of toddy
Sent him cozily to sleep,
And next morning into harbour
The old ship made shift to creep.
And never from that moment,
(Lest again sick he might be)
Excepting in fine weather,
Did we venture out to sea.
_Punch._ January 15, 1853.
――――:o:――――
THE RETURN OF THE MEMBERS.
_From the great Naval Review in 1853._
How speedily, how puffingly they glide along the rail,
The M.P.’s who went down at morn to see the fleet in sail;
And now they’re going back to town to sit again to-night,
Like creatures who’ve no Factory Bill to guard their labour’s
right;
And some are jolly, some can scarce their eyelids open keep,
And some who have been queer all day now are gone to sleep;
But in one carriage one young member ventures this remark,
“How proud must be the admiral of every glorious bark!”
* * * * *
Said Bright, “For no inducement’s sake an admiral I’d be,
No Peace Societies again would ask me out to tea;
And people all would think that I demeaned me, as they say,
That Mr. Buckstone does the fighting Quaker in the play.”
“I would not be an admiral,” Mackinnon said, “until
Each cannon were subjected to my smoke-prevention Bill,
Else should I fire a single gun ’twould drive me wild to see
A curl of smoke upon the air, or even on the sea.”
* * * * *
_Diogenes._ Volume ii. 1853.
――――
THE TERM OF THE FRESHMAN.
How jollily, how joyously we live at B. N. C.[53]
Our reading is all moonshine――the wind is not more free:
The champagne is all sparkling; we quaff it day and night,
Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns
bright.
All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep;
Strange “duns” come up to look at us, their masters though so
deep;
In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go,
And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro.
Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should
say,
Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey,
Who’ve ta’en his horse to covert, who’ve cleaned, with labour
sore,
The snowy “tops” which he shall have when chapel-time is o’er.
Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word,
His pink and well-built leathers, to turn out like a lord?
I’d shout to yonder hack there, though somewhat screwed it be――
Each morn I’ll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale’s hounds to see.
Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew,
Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few;
And we looked into our bankers, but nothing could we see,
And at last there came the fearful time for what we call “degree.”
We read――’twas but an instant! for speedily the pride
Of being plucked twice for “little go,” all chance of ours defied;
This gave boldness to th’ examiners, as, sitting in a row,
They told us we might mizzle, for indeed it was no go.
That night a horrid proctor fell on us where we lay,
And we knew some fine policemen were carrying us away;
And we heard the wash of waters――hard by the gutter we――
And a whistle from a friend of ours who knew how it would be.
Till dawn they watched the body in its most unpleasant sleep,
And the two next Terms, at morning, they refused to let us keep;
And ever from that moment did one shudder for to see,
The proctor or policeman that had followed in our lee.
From _Hints to Freshmen_. Oxford: J. Vincent.
(An amusing little pamphlet, which has been ascribed to the Rev. Canon
Hole.)
――――
THE RETURN TO TYROL.
I.
How merrily, how jollily we haste along the steep,
Though mist is all around us, and snow is lying deep;
The green Inn rushes foamingly, far down beneath our path,
And chafes against the stocks and stones, like an M.P. in wrath.
All nature holds a washing-day, with froth, and slop, and steam,
The wintry sun will scarcely deign vouchsafe one vagrant beam;
So when we reach Landek and stop, well may the _Gastwirth_[54]
grin,
He sees the Nirgend’s[55] Wanderer come very soppy in:
(_Chorus of enthusiastic partizans and compatriots_:――)
The long-haired German Wanderer comes very soppy in!
II.
Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day,
Though he a red umbrella has, from Rome brought all the way.
The wind was high, the road was rough, where slushy mud snow,
Lay on the long and winding path, and through it went our Joe!
He sneezed! a moment’s weakness, for speedily he cried,
“Bring me a glass of your _Brantwein_,[56] and a _masz_ of Bier
beside!”
It gave colour to his cheek and nose, yet took away his breath,
And he look’d like some old fox-hunter, new come in at the death:
(_Chorus, discriminative and appreciatory_:――)
Like some half-wash’d-out fox-hunter, that rides in at the death.
III.
The Wanderer grew merrier, and merrier still he grew,
Joining in all the harmless fun of that Tyrolean crew;
He sang Italian Opera airs, French _chansons_,[57] English songs,
And _Burschen lieder_,[58] that were chorused as by Chinese
gongs.
He looked in his deep beer-glass: the _kellnerin_[59] knew the
sign,
And fill’d it up: he took one sup, and then set-to at wine.
That night a horrid whisper pass’d, with calumny imbued,
It said “The long-hair’d Wanderer got regularly screw’d!”
(_Chorus, unanimous and valedictory._)
Of course ’twas false, but how he got to bed he never knewed!
JOSEPH WOODFALL EBSWORTH.
Innspruchk. 1854.
――――
THE BABY IN THE TRAIN.
“Why is there not a Compartment ‘for Babies only’?”
_The Crusty Philosopher._
How merrily, how cheerily, we ride along the rail!
We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale!
I’m comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat,
With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet;
I’ve all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap,
I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap;
A nap indeed? Impossible! You’ll find it all in vain,
To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train!
He’s autocratic as to rule, and as to language terse,
He’ll freely fist his dear Mamma, and domineer o’er Nurse!
He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient Chimpanzee’s,
And babbles of the “puff-puff,” and prattles of “gee-gees:”
He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand nor sit,
But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit.
I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain――
But _what_ a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train!
I wish to feign the friendly, but I earnestly reflect――
In silly finger-snapping do I lose my self respect?
Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene?
Is “kitchee-kitchee” fitted for my gravity of mien?
Can I talk of “doggie-oggies,” or prate of “ittle dears”?
Is “peep-bo” fit amusement for a person of my years?
And though I do my very best to try to entertain,
I’m thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train!
He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly,
How spitefully I’d pinch him if no guardians were nigh!
He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit,
He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot;
He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my _Punch_;
He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch;
And cups of milk at stations, too, how eagerly he’ll drain,
With sighs of satisfaction, will the Baby in the train!
O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets!
And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking bassinettes,
And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys,
To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys.
O brim the cup with caudle high! Let Soothing Syrup flow!
Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also!
And let all Railway Companies immediately sustain
A Separate Compartment for the Baby in the Train!
_Punch._ March 24, 1883.
――――
THE NEWS.
(After “_The Sea! The Sea!_”)
The News! the News! the motley News!
Oh, how I love the motley News!
’Tis here, ’tis there, ’tis everywhere,
At market, statute, wake and fair,
And tells to all the country round,
Where rogues and knaves may soon be found.
I love the News! I love the News!
And when I’m bothered with “the blues,”
I turn me to the motley page,
Where barbers boast, and patriots rage,
And if it tells of bankrupt Jews,
What matter? I’m among the News!
I love, oh, how I love the News!
It’s gay _bon-mots_ and keen reviews――
To loll at ease from morn till night,
With nought but News within my sight,
While lords attend the huntsman’s becks,
And set no value on their necks.
I never see the motley News,
But love the more its new-born dews;
And I think of the curl of an editor’s nose,
As he scans the scraps of rhyme and prose,
That come to his hand from _wits and blues_,
Ambitious of places within the News.
The _devil_ was black, ’twas early morn,
And the _pressmen_ sweat, when the News was born;
A _proof_ had been in the editor’s gripe,
And there wasn’t a single misplaced _type_.
Each _pig_ was set, the _galleys_ were high,
No _column_ could crumble into _pie_――
The _forme_ was so well lock’d up with _quoin_,
And the _chase_ was proud of every line.
I love, I love, the motley page,
And if I live to well-fed age,
And e’er-so-often change my views,
What matter? I’ll always love the News!
From “_Songs of the Press_, and other Poems relative to the art of
Printing, original and selected.” Compiled by C. H. Timperley, and
published by Fisher, Son & Co., London, 1845.
――――
THE PRESS.
The Press! the Press! the glorious Press!
The deep, the fresh, the ever free,
Without a mark, without a bound,
It searcheth the earth’s wide regions round.
It plays with despots, it mocks their spleen,
Or like a flaming rod is seen.
I’m on the Press! I’m on the Press!
I am where I would ever be,
With the ink above, and the paper below,
And the _devil_ to pay wherever I go.
If the Os[60] should storm, and threaten my fall,
What matter? what matter? I can _beat_ them all.
It loves, oh! how it loves to ride
On the lordly voice of the popular tide,
When every madcap speaks his mind,
Or thumps his knuckles for want of wind.
And tells how goeth the National Debt,
And why at taxes the people fret.
I never reported for one short hour,
But I loved the free Press more and more,
And backwards flew to my _devils_ and _type_,
Like a bear cub that loveth its mother’s gripe;
And kinder and kinder it is to me,
For the Press was born to be useful and free!
The world was changed, and the Pope looked round,
When the hydra head of the Press was unbound,
And the eyes of oppression and hatred rolled,
And tyrants offered their bags of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As strove to smother the free-born child.
It has stood since then with great strength and weight,
In spite of prisons and engines great,
With Truth to guide, and Power to range,
And never may England see its change;
And life,――whenever it loves me less,
Shall see me bound to the glorious Press!
From _Songs of the Press_.
[Illustration]
OLD SONGS AND BALLADS.
THE MIDDLESEX ELECTION.
(_A Ballad to the tune of Chevy Chase._)
God prosper long our noble king,
And eke his subjects too;
And grant such deeds as now I sing
We never more may rue.
In seventeen hundred sixty-eight,
All on a summer’s day,
Grim death did on our member wait,
And took him clean away.
O, then a writ was issued out,
To chuse a member in;
And soon began a mighty rout
For Procter and for Glynn.
When as the day advanced nigh,
Each party did its best;
And Horne (who scorns to tell a lye)
Turn’d Proctor’s cause to jest.
Some worthy wights, the Lord knows who,
Of Irish strength assur’d,
Provided many a gallant crew,
True men, I’ll pawn my word.
Such crowds to Brentford town did hie,
As fill’d the place outright;
While thousands knew not where to lie,
And so――sat up all night.
At length the fatal morning came,
O had it ne’er arriv’d!
For many a wight crawled home quite lame,
Full glad that he surviv’d.
Soon as the rising sun had clear’d
The gloomy shades of night,
All on the hustings they appear’d――
O! ’twas a glorious sight!
With ribbon and with star bespread,
(Given by the good old king)
Sir William hung his languid head,
And looked――like any thing.
The serjeant held his head upright,
For conscious still was he,
That those who do the deed that’s right,
Have real cause for glee.
Mr.O’Murphy too was there,
Hight counsellor at law――
His business was to strut and stare,
And find or make a flaw.
Count Gambler look’d as who should say,
“I’ll bet ye six to one
“That Beauchamp Proctor gets the day:”
“I’ll take it, damme.”――“Done.”
Whilst bustling still from place to place,
Old Brentford’s priest was seen,
Who for this meal said many a grace,
And fervent pray’r, I ween.
And still to heighten all they could
This mighty gallant show,
Close by the hustings numbers stood,
Like――soldiers all a-row.
The clock told two, up flew the hat,
(A signal for each wounder)
And soon the freeholders lay flat
As ever lay a flounder.
Then eyes and sculls, and arms and legs,
Were darken’d, fractur’d, broke;
And those who could not keep their pegs,
Fell down――to mend the joke.
And many a ribbon flew about,
(For favours then were common)
And hundreds of the rabble rout
Were dizen’d out like yeomen.
What they did more, let other bards
In other guise declare;
For, truth to say, they play’d their cards,
To make all England stare.
Now God preserve our noble king,
And grant henceforth, for aye,
No future poet e’er may sing
The deeds of such a day!
――――
THE LITCHFIELD DEFEAT.
God prosper long our noble king!
Our lives and safeties all;
A woful horse-race late there did
At Whittington befall.
Great Bedford’s duke, a mighty prince!
A solemn vow did make,
His pleasure in fair Staffordshire
Three summer’s days to take.
At once to grace his father’s race,
And to confound his foes:
But ah! (with grief my Muse does speak)
A luckless time he chose.
For some rude clowns, who long had felt
The weight of Tax and Levy,
Explained their case unto his Grace
By arguments full heavy.
* * * *
The whole of this parody will be found in volume iv. of _The New
Foundling Hospital for Wit_. London, 1786.
Another parody of _Chevy Chase_ occurs in the same volume, it is very
long, and relates to some persons and political events of interest in
1776, but long since forgotten.
――――:o:――――
VERSES BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Go soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errant,
Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must dye,
And give them all the lye.
Go, tell the court it glowse
And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the church it showes
What’s good, does no good.
If court and church replye,
Give court and church the lye.
Tell potentates they live
Acting, but oh! their actions,
Not lov’d unless they give!
Not strong, but by their factions.
If potentates replye,
Give potentates the lye.
* * * * *
――――
A PARODY WRITTEN IN 1764.
Go, truth, unwelcome guest!
Upon a thankless errant;
Fear not to touch the best,
For truth is a safe warrant.
Go, since thou needs must die,
And give them all the lye.
Go, tell the Tory faction,
Now in their noontide hour,
England won’t bear an action
Of an arbitrary power.
If Tories should reply,
Give Tories all the lye.
Go, tell th’ ennobled thief,
While cares oppress him most,
He ne’er shall taste relief
From guilt――from Ayliffe’s ghost.
And if the thief reply,
Then give the thief the lye.
* * * * *
The original and the parody are both given at full length in volume
iv. of _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit_. London, 1786.
――――:o:――――
BEN JONSON’S
“ODE ON THE STAGE.”
Ben Jonson was very unfortunate in not conciliating the affections of
his brother writers. He possessed a great share of arrogance, and was
desirous of ruling the realms of Parnassus with a despotic sceptre.
That he was not always successful in his theatrical compositions is
evident from his abusing, on the title pages of his plays, both the
actors and the public. I have collected the following three satirical
odes, written when the unfavorable reception of his “_New Inn_, or
_The Light Heart_,” warmly exasperated the poet.
He printed the title in the following manner: “_New Inn_, or _The
Light Heart_; a Comedy never acted, but most negligently played by
some, the King’s servants; and more squeamishly beheld and censured by
others, the King’s subjects, 1629. Now at last set at liberty to the
readers, his Majesty’s servants and subjects, to be judged, 1631.”
At the end of this play he published the following Ode, in which he
threatens to quit the stage for ever; and turn at once a Horace, an
Anacreon, and a Pindar.
“The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his
play, begat this following Ode to himself:
Come, leave the loathed stage,
And the more loathsome age;
Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit,)
Usurp the chair of wit
Inditing and arraigning every day
Something they call a play.
Let their fastidious, vaine
Commission of braine
Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn;
They were not made for thee,――less thou for them.
Say that thou pour’st them wheat,
And they will acorns eat;
’Twere simple fury, still, thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,
Whose appetites are dead!
No, give them graines their fill,
Husks, draff, to drink and swill.
If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not their palate with the swine.
No doubt some mouldy tale
Like Pericles[61], and stale
As the shrieve’s crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Scraps, out of every dish
Thrown forth, and rak’t into the common-tub,
May keep up the play-club:
There sweepings do as well
As the best order’d meale,
For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the almes-basket of wit.
And much good do’t you then,
Brave plush and velvet men
Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage clothes,
Dare quit, upon your oathes,
The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers),
Of larding your large ears
With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks:
Which if they’re torn, and turn’d, and patch’d enough,
The gamesters share your guilt and you their stuff.
Leave things so prostitute,
And take the Alcæick lute,
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon’s lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar’s fire;
And, tho’ thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold,
Ere years have made thee old,
Strike that disdainful heat
Throughout, to their defeat;
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May, blushing, swear no palsy’s in thy brain[62].
But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy King,
His zeal to God, and his just awe o’er men,
They may blood-shaken then,
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers,
As they shall cry like ours,
In sound of peace, or wars,
No harp ere hit the stars,
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign,
And raising Charles his chariot ’bove his wain.”
This Magisterial Ode, as Langbaine calls it, was answered by _Owen
Feltham_, author of the “Resolves.” His character of Ben Jonson should
be attended to:――
AN ANSWER TO THE ODE, “COME LEAVE THE LOATHED STAGE, &C.”
Come leave this sawcy way
Of baiting those that pay
Dear for the sight of your declining wit
’Tis known it is not fit
That a sale poet, just contempt once thrown
Should cry up thus his own.
I wonder by what dower,
Or patent, you had power
From all to rape a judgment. Let’s suffice,
Had you been modest, y’ad been granted wise.
’Tis known you can do well,
And that you do excell
As a translator; but when things require
A genius, and fire,
Not kindled heretofore by other pains,
As oft y’ave wanted brains
And art to strike the white,
As you have levell’d right:
Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal,
You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.
Jug, Pierce, Peek, Fly[63], and all
Your jests so nominal,
Are things so far beneath an able brain,
As they do throw a stain
Thro’ all th’ unlikely plot, and do displease
As deep as Pericles.
Where yet there is not laid
Before a chamber-maid
Discourse so weighed[64], as might have serv’d of old
For schools, when they of love and valour told.
Why rage, then? when the show
Should judgment be, and know-[65]
ledge, there are plush who scorn to drudge
For stages, yet can judge
Not only poets’ looser lines, but wits,
And all their perquisits;
A gift as rich as high
Is noble poesie:
Yet, tho’ in sport it be for Kings to play,
’Tis next mechanicks’ when it works for pay.
Alcæus lute had none,
Nor loose Anacreon
E’er taught so bold assuming of the bays
When they deserv’d no praise.
To rail men into approbation
Is new to your’s alone:
And prospers not: for known,
Fame is as coy, as you
Can be disdainful; and who dares to prove
A rape on her shall gather scorn――not love.
Leave then this humour vain,
And this more humourous strain,
Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood,
Eclipse what else is good:
Then, if you please those raptures high to touch,
Whereof you boast so much:
And but forbear your crown
Till the world puts it on:
No doubt, from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theme no Phœbus ever saw.
To console Ben for this reprimand, Randolph, one of the adopted
poetical sons of Jonson, addressed him as follows:――
AN ANSWER TO MR. BEN JONSON’S ODE,
TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE.
I.
Ben, do not leave the stage
Cause ’tis a loathsome age:
For pride and impudence will grow too bold,
When they shall hear it told
They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause;
Their hiss is thy applause:
More just were thy disdain,
Had they approved thy vein:
So thou for them, and they for thee were born;
They to incense, and thou as much to scorn.
II.
Wilt thou engross thy store
Of wheat, and pour no more,
Because their bacon-brains had such a taste
As more delight in mast:
No! set them forth a board of dainties, full
As thy best muse can cull;
Whilst they the while do pine
And thirst, midst all their wine.
What greater plague can hell itself devise,
Than to be willing thus to tantalise?
III.
Thou canst not find them stuff,
That will be bad enough
To please their pallates: let ’em them refuse,
For some Pye-corner muse:
She is too fair an hostess, ’twere a sin
For them to like thine Inn:
’Twas made to entertain
Guests of a nobler strain;
Yet, if they will have any of the store,
Give them some scraps, and send them from thy dore.
IV.
And let those things in plush
Till they be taught to blush,
Like what they will, and more contented be
With what Broom[66] swept from thee.
I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains
Write not to cloaths, but brains:
But thy great spleen doth rise,
’Cause moles will have no eyes;
This only in my Ben I faulty find,
He’s angry they’ll not see him that are blind.
V.
Why shou’d the scene be mute
’Cause thou canst touch the lute
And string thy Horace? Let each Muse of nine
Claim thee, and say, th’art mine.
’Twere fond, to let all other flames expire,
To sit by Pindar’s fire:
For by so strange neglect
I should myself suspect
Thy palsie were as well thy brain’s disease,
If they could shake thy muse which way they please.
VI.
And tho’ thou well canst sing
The glories of thy King,
And on the wings of verse his chariot bear
To heaven, and fix it there;
Yet let thy muse as well some raptures raise
To please him, as to praise.
I would not have thee chuse
Only a treble muse;
But have this envious, ignorant age to know,
Thou that canst sing so high, canst reach as low.
――――
COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.
(_Born about 1618. Educated at Oxford. Imprisoned by the Long
Parliament. Afterwards served in the French army. The latter part of
his life was very miserable. He died in an alley near Shoe Lane, in
1658._)
TO ALTHEA.
When Love, with unconfinèd wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free――
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, linnet-like, confinèd, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,[67]
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
R. LOVELACE.
――――
SONG.――AFTER LOVE-LACE.
Grey hairs do not a prophet make,
Nor wrinkled brow a sage;
Though Innocence as such may take
These signs upon Life’s stage.
Some think they are in “wrinkles” wise,
And some a _profit_ find
In hair――but then it is in dyes,
And braids to pin behind!
Though flowing locks will drop away,
The flowing cups remain.
The drops they hold will go, but they
Can still be filled again.
And ’tis a “wrinkle” Age has taught,
That clay must ne’er be dry,
Lest into crumbling dust ’tis brought
So, fill the Tankard high!
C. H. WARING.
From _Hood’s Comic Annual_. 1885.
The author of the above parody, Mr.C. H. Waring, is a frequent
contributor to _Fun_, and other humorous periodicals. He was formerly
associated with George Cruikshank in several literary ventures. The
amusing parody on Lord Tennyson’s _Revenge_ entitled “_Retribution_,”
on page 42, Volume I. _Parodies_, was also from his pen.
――――
A FRUGAL MIND.
Champagne will not a dinner make,
Nor Caviare a meal:
Men gluttonous and rich, may take
Those till they make them ill.
If I’ve potatoes to my chop,
And after chop have cheese,
Angels in Pond and Spiers’s shop
Know no such luxuries!
_Punch._ April 3, 1875.
――――:o:――――
TO LUCASTA.
ON GOING TO THE WARS.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,――
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger love embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore:
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
R. LOVELACE.
――――
THE GRAND OLD O’DIDDLE TO MISS ERIN.